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.
It is their stories I tell.
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.