Currently listening: Flume, Bon Iver.
The life of a working woman has given me a tangible kind of purpose, an income, but all that previously existed in me spiritually feels as though it has floated elsewhere. Get up, go to work, eat my meals, go to sleep. Try to squeeze in some communication with other people, but find it far too exhausting. Try to create something...write...but what is there? My words have felt so empty and light lately--what could I possibly say that will move anyone? Will move myself, even?
I feel that something is missing. There is a personal void.
This is my first post in a bit of time. I feel like I always have to have something EPIC to say, some sort of new epiphany for the 3 people that probably read this. But to be completely honest, the wishy washy person I am by nature is resurfacing again. My fire that ignites the wick that runs through my hand to my pencil has been doused in water. I need it to catch a spark but I've got nothing.
I will go to bed with my familiar pile of journals, screaming: WRITEINME, but I'll follow with a "not tonight, I will only disappoint you." Everyday... the promise is becoming a challenge. Lacking inspiration, even drive, to find some sort of beauty in anything. Walt Whitman would find me a disgrace.
I need something, anything, to shock me back to life.
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When your days revolve around everything except you, it's impossible to feel anything, at times. It's a vacant body on autopilot, your heart and head bottomless dark chasms.
ReplyDeleteOr at least, that's how I think of it. But what do I know?
You cannot possibly disappoint paper. When all else fails, write your stream of conciousness. And I only say that because you've said it to me. :)