I have no excuses this time. I simply stopped writing. No poems, no daily practice, no journal entries, nothing. I’ve been acting as though writing is not a part of me at all. Every so often, I felt a twinge, a subtle urge to capture the words in my mind, but it never grew strong enough to take control. Whatever fragments of poetry or prose that were in my head evaporated.
Most days, I didn’t think about writing at all. Does that mean I’m done? Has this experiment come to end at last? I honestly don’t know. It’s strange living such an isolated life that when you stop something that has been so vital no one notices. I don’t have anyone in my life who encourages me to do this work. No one says, “Hey, I miss your posts, your poems, your thoughts.”
I shouldn’t need anyone but myself to say those things. I’ve always written for myself, because it’s part of who I am, whether or not I share. But this time, I didn’t miss it. I didn’t miss me. I wish I had someone asking, “What’s up? Where have been?”
Maybe I need a vacation. A change of scenery, a new routine. Maybe I need more sleep, less whiskey. Or fewer squirrels digging up all the bulbs in my yard and eating the few blueberries that have survived this drought. (Still fuming. Can’t let it go.)
Maybe I need to cut out all the junk food I’ve been eating and see if my overall mood improves. Or start exercising to get the blood pumping to my shrinking brain.
Maybe I need to let myself feel the feelings I’d rather numb with food and television. Or read one of the books that are lying around taunting me.
Maybe I need simply to accept that I didn’t write for a week, and that’s okay.