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.