Writing is was my escape. In the past, when I have been imprisoned by my thoughts, barely breathing or functioning, putting words to paper was my rusty spoon, carving a hole in my cell until light spilled through.
But not today, this week, this month, this summer, this year.
I can see the words – they’re right there. I tilt the maze back and forth, watching them hit dead ends and pitfalls, never reaching freedom.
It’s fear. i don’t want to fail
It’s doubt. am I as good as I used to be
It’s stress. a black hole, pulling every ounce of resolve into its inky blackness
It’s anger. unrighteous frustration when things arbitrarily go wrong
I’m optimistic about future happiness and success. I’m hopeful for fulfillment – personal, emotional, physical. I happily anticipate whatever is creeping around the corner. But it’s all shaded with a grayness, colored by reminders and deadlines and complaints and letters and pressure and even more responsibilities.
Right now, I’m forcing myself to write. Because I KNOW. All I have to do is publish. The hole appears. The cell no longer seems impenetrable. Light streams in, coloring the big bad monsters with perspective.
It’s just a matter of getting that first little handhold.