I’ve been lost for words for the past twenty-four hours. I wanted to write my heart out last night. I wanted to purge myself of the deep loneliness that’s sat heavily in my chest like a fist sized lump of set honey, but my words were missing and I couldn’t find them anywhere. No matter how many times I picked up my pen, or put my fingers to my keyboard, there was nothing but white space and more white space and more white space.
I’ve felt nauseous today, as, without success, I’ve tried to reform my routine. I’ve had stuff that really needed to be completed, but I just couldn’t do it. My words weren’t forthcoming, and remained hidden, no matter how many times I tried to gently coax them back. My mood has been fragile, and the smallest things have ticked me off. There’s a road running outside the house. It’s busy but not ridiculously so. Though today it was as though it had transformed into a motorway, and I found myself turning away from my desk to glare at the window and hiss ‘why the fuck can’t everyone just fucking walk!’
Writing is my everything, and to have it slink away and hide like this feels unfair. My ‘to do’ list is only half complete tonight, and that just rubs salt deep into the gaping wound. I pride myself on my efficiency and ability to get jobs done, so tonight my self-worth is practically non-existent.
‘Tomorrow is another day,’ has been my mantra recently, but today I needed to say ‘the next hour is another hour, try again,’ so that’s why I’ve dragged this post into existence, to try and push a little flicker of defiant light into the dark space that I’ve found myself in.