I think I have figured it out though.
Writing, real writing, has begun to terrify me.
When I am pouring my heart out on a page or crafting a poem I am also simultaneously burrowing deep into myself. So deep that often times I struggle to find my way out of the trenches. I enter an existential crisis where nothing becomes certain and every moment, every instant of my life is isolated and scrutinized.
I furrow into this deep funk where I feel completely separate from myself and entirely alone. And each time I crawl into that hole it has become harder to emerge from.
And so, I am finding myself immeasurably stuck. What I love to do has become something that I cannot afford to do. My writing is no longer a way for me to process my feelings in order to overcome them, but rather a way for me to eternally and invasively probe every thought until it is in its very nature a feeble question.
So what now?
I think for now I must wait.
I must wait until I have someone who I know will be able to pull me out of that place. I must wait until I am no longer scared to pick up my pen.
I am still considering all of the things I used to be able to write about, I am just not expressing them in the same way.
I think for now I need to explore with other people, people who are not just on the other side of the internet. I think I need the human contact and compassion and while I know most of my readers are people who I intimately and personally know, the majority of you are not physically here and I need that right now. I love you all, even those of you I do not personally know who have just stumbled upon this blog somewhere along the way, but I think that is all I can do for now.
