The Right Medicine
I’ve been retreating from the uncomfortable lately. I haven’t written a blog post in months and I’m even finding it hard to journal random thoughts or reflections. There seems to be this unnecessary anchor of anxiety. I feel like every time I go to write that something profound must manifest off of the page. So, I don’t even entertain it. For years my writing was messy, but a critical part of my day
But now it’s just hard. Why is it so hard?
I’m writing this sentence after almost 40 minutes of staring, erasing, editing, and caffeine-ing.
I’m pissed because inspiration and an intense desire to investigate through writing just isn’t the norm right now. And it might shift tomorrow. And with Ramadan here (and things quieting down) I want…I feel this strong desire to patiently sift through the murky, cobwebbed spaces. Something is there. But it feels so dense (and empty) at the same time. But it’s important.
This post doesn’t sit well with me. But I’m sharing because I’m human and not everything is filtered, final, or clear.
And some days (or months) are harder than others.
But I won’t pack easy into the emptiness.
Holding out for the right medicine, I suppose.
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