Once upon a time I considered myself a poet. Even my prose was poetic. I wrote from the depths of my feeling. Then, to my horror, all feeling stopped. Overwhelmed by life, I shut down. I couldn't give any more of myself to anything or anyone. I slumped into survival mode and abandoned all hope of becoming a writer. All my focus was on making it through the next moment of life.
Of course, while inside the storm I could not see an end or escape. I could not see how I would ever reclaim my voice, my soul.
Now I am on the other side of survival mode. I have moved into some new phase of life that I've never really experienced before. Life is generally good. I'm not emotional, discouraged, depressed, wrestling with a broken heart, anger or resentment. I'm not holding a grudge against anyone. My heart is open and alive. I'm not particularly worried about anything. No drama, no trauma, just life. It's not boring though. Life is getting better. I am getting better. Generally I'm content and in pursuit of the future. No fear, no regret...
I'm tired a lot of the time and my headaches are still there, but that is minor compared to what I have been in the past. I have nothing really to complain about. I have no deep feelings, no deep thoughts pressing on my soul. So what do I write about? I've never known how to write from contentment or happiness...so I'm having a difficult time with writing much of anything. Perhaps I should go back to writing stupid little stories like I used to. At least it would be something. I need an adventure or a life-altering event...or I need to learn how to make the mundane interesting.
Well, that's why I'm in school I guess. If I were already a phenominal writer, I wouldn't need to learn this and I would be in school studying something completely different. So I guess that when it's time for me to write again, I will have the words. Until then, worrying about it or trying to force it won't do any good.
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