God, have I missed writing.
My pages have run dry for, what, has it been months now?
Because I want to write for other people. And suddenly a wall shoots down and chops off my hands in the process and I'm trapped, watching the future I want pass me by, but crippled, unable to do anything about it.
This fear, I can't seem to break it, it's so annoying. The closer I get to finishing a piece that I think other people will enjoy, the louder the resistance gets. I've tried bringing it up in therapy, asking for help, implementing routines to just do the thing...
But the fear is always louder.
It's so loud I'm going deaf. At times I forget I even want to write in the first place. It's like the fear buries my life force so far underground I don't realize it was ever there. And then I'll watch something emotional and brilliant and true that will bring me back to life... only to bury myself once again.
It's like I have all this color in me and I pour grey paint all over the thing. Every day. Numbing my passion into a dreamy, dreary kind of sedation- something that doesn't feel bad, but doesn't feel much, either.
I had a dear coworker today ask me if I was okay. "You're lacking your usual fire," she said. Fire. I forget I have it when it comes to my work.
I want it back. I want it back. I want it back.