I just can't summon up enough of anything to force my writing to flow. Unable to focus and force my craft to produce anything. Hell even my grocery list today was a literary disaster.
Definitely not writers block, I have a staggering number of "drafts" in the queue that need finishing.
Been chasing an idea today that ducks and dodges my lasso. Frustratingly difficult.
Sometimes my greatest writing comes from a place in me that feels like a conduit just opens up and a subspace rift shoots though and take over my hands. I feel an energy in my hands and I write until it dissipates.
gawd if I could just harness that....to be able to open that headspace at will.
I dream some days that, just maybe, my words will have the power to heal someone. That I could weave my personal pain and madness into a life preserver that I cast out into the cosmos and someone will find it and it will save them.
There has to be a reason for my pain.
Email from my good man Trent in response to yesterdays blog. "Why do you work in a depressing field and deal with death when you, yourself are seriously depressed and suicidal?"
Oh my friend., damn good question.
Its hard at times. Very hard. More then I care to count I have had to take a break after I locked the door behind the funeral van. Bitterly angry and jealous that death took that person and not me.
I give a higher quality of care to my residents because I am able to understand their physical pain better then the other caregivers who don't deal with chronic pain.
Should I be in the line of work?
Because its therapeutic for me.
Its a riddle I am trying to decipher, and I haven't found the answer yet.