So If I Miss It So Much…

That’s what you’re thinking, right? That’s what I’m thinking. Why did I stop showing up? stop working at it? stop prioritizing it?

Welcome to depression. The deep part. The silent part. The part that makes you groan when you wake up another day. The part that doesn’t want to reach out for help, because it doesn’t want to be drawn into the light. The part that knows this part of me is beyond help. Beyond words.

Exercise has no power over it. Sunshine can’t warm it. It’s stronger and colder than all of us. And it’s so entwined with my soul that I don’t remember where I start. Or end. Or whether I was ever separate to begin with.

So, yes I miss writing. I miss feeling. I miss looking at the world and finding beauty, even in endless questioning and edgeless loneliness. Those things are not this. This thing is something other, and yet wholly me. Maybe it’s the Truth of who I am. That which I’ve been writing about all along.

I Miss Writing

That’s all. I just miss it.

I miss having it as part of my identity, even though I kept it mostly secret.

I miss juggling words, even though I dropped so many.

I miss looking at the world, at my life, and wondering what shape it would take on the page today.

I miss feeling that maybe I don’t totally suck after all.

I just miss it.

That’s all.