I’ve been falling behind lately on a lot of writing assignments recently, especially after my last breakdown in the spring. Honestly, I’ve been avoiding committing my fingers to the keyboard. There have been the odd moments that I’ve been able to pull myself together to string words together, to articulate the things that I tell people that I plan on saying. And then we hit radio silence.
Well, that’s a lie. It’s not silence; but rather, it’s unease.
Every time that I sit down to collect my thoughts, I’m caught wading through them all, especially the depressing ones. To confront these terrifying thoughts is like wandering into the woods at night — there is no safeguard; no one to hear you scream; nothing but darkness. So the alternative is to pack them in the burgeoning closet where all my other ideas live. To open that door is to create an explosion of everything and anything.
There hasn’t been a way to compartmentalize; instead, every time I’ve committed myself to writing it has either been in a blind flurry of typing, racing against my own thoughts in hopes that I beat myself to the word count, or having to sit with my memories and demons.
And honestly? I’m tired.
In short, that’s why I haven’t been writing.
Photo credit: sxc.hu