Originally written on 4/3/2021

I’m not going to lie. It’s been a hard and emotionally exhausting month for me.

I know it’s no excuse. Not really. To say (as a writer) that you will only write when you feel like it. *But you should be taking necessary breaks so you don’t overexert yourself. As a writer, it’s your job to write. And to get better at your craft, you must practice your craft every day.

I guess this post serves more as a future letter to myself. And to help me reflect by dumping all my feelings.

I haven’t had inspiration, enthusiasm, creativity, imagination, or excitement over the past month. I don’t know what it is. I’m still desperately trying to figure out this irritating slump myself so I can get moving and writing again (with a smile).

My mind feels stunted. My heart feels worn.

I’ve come to hate the things I’ve used to like. And it’s not because I truly hate it. It’s because I hate that I don’t get the wonderful feeling by doing those things anymore. I still love the things I’m interested in. I’m just terribly frustrated that I can’t deeply feel or express that love right now…and I don’t know WHY.

I seem to have lost the ability to care much. Something I never imagined could happen to me. Because I feel too damn much all the damn time!

My clarity of vision has become very blurry and I’m lost. I guess this is normal – because we’re humans. But when you go through it, it feels like the farthest thing from normal. I don’t feel like myself. When I can’t have this sweeping romance and beautiful dance with creativity where we harmoniously diffuse magic together, what do I have?

I feel empty. And to feel like your creativity and imagination has been stripped from you is like a ruthless thief has cut out your vital organs.

I blame COVID quarantine. Ha ha! I shouldn’t blame it, but I do. I’ve seem to lose humor and enjoyment in things. And it sucks! It makes me so anxious! At the start of quarantine, I was ecstatic to be able to live in my seemingly happy bubble of solitude. And genuinely I was. I enjoyed going within. Learning about myself. Playing with my creativity. Taking a break from being around people. But after a year of isolation, damn, even I was starting to feel the effects that others felt at the start of quarantine.

I feel empty. And it doesn’t help that I don’t feel like I am doing anything meaningful in my life.

I watched my favorite shows and movies. Read my favorite books. Wrote stories, songs, poetry. Did crafting and photography. Binge-watched YouTube. Belted out songs at the top of my lungs.

I see a blank canvas or page and I know there’s a colorful image waiting to surface. I yearn to create. To embrace the abundant magic. I’m ready to get moving. But I feel stuck and I can’t make anything…

Nothing brought back life into me. Everything seemed to be a temporary treatment to my ailment. A momentary upper that drops me even lower once the effects are gone. An ailment I can’t put my finger on. Other than I’m socially disconnected. But even trying to remedy that seems like too much effort.

I will be optimistic that I’ll get out of this slump. But for now, I’m still adrift in this murky lake of confusion and bleakness.