I don’t think I have any more stories to write.
I’m not sure if it is permanent or not, but since the pandemic began, I have lost the need to write. I have lost the desire to write. I have lost the fire to write.
I no longer have anything. My creative tank seems to be empty. I have had a couple of false starts, but the words cease to flow after a few sentences.
I have suffered from PTSD in the past. I have a feeling that I will be suffering again. Sometimes I think I will need more than intense counseling. Sometimes, I don’t want to think about it…
Being essential during these trying times started taking a toll almost immediately, I wrote about it in What It’s Like To Be Essential. On some days I think it has gotten easier, but it hasn’t. What has happened is the following lines I wrote in War Springs Eternal are now a reality
.
“Time hardens our exterior, but that doesn’t change the truth;
We are all afraid. Once the fear is accepted, it becomes part of us.”
I miss creativity.
I miss writing.
I miss my art.
I miss not being afraid.
I miss smiling.
I miss joy.
As I have written on several occasions —
I write of the damaged and broken, because that is the norm.
For each person who overcomes their demons,
there are hundreds,
if not thousands,
who do not.
Truth be told, I was also telling variations of my stories, because like many,
I have been damaged, but never completely broken.
Inside I wonder if that is still the case.
Now, I wonder aloud.