When I began this blog, that wasn’t the question I was trying to answer. I wanted to write. I thought about writing all the time, but I never had the discipline to do the work. Giving myself the task of a daily post helped me transform that energy into something real. Can I write? Yes. But why do I?
This week has been rough. I’m still sick, but finally up and dressed. Dragging through my days still, never far from a box of tissue, but passing as human (just). I haven’t thought at all about writing until this morning, and those thoughts reduce down to that simple question: why?
Maybe when the fog clears a bit more, the question will go with it. I haven’t been able to answer it. Sitting here now, typing this, I feel disconnected from the person who has been scribbling these little rhymes and verses every day. She showed up to do the work, just for the sake of doing it. It made sense to her. She wanted to do it.
Maybe she’s still in here somewhere, trapped in my clogged brain. Maybe she’s the reason I’m sitting here typing. Maybe she has the answers. I don’t.