I’ve found it harder than usual to put pen to paper these past few months, and I’m not so sure it’s writers’ block as much as pure, unadulterated exhaustion. I’ve been scrambling for some time now. Scrambling to do it all, to make it all happen… to get to a place of rest.
When I finally found that place, I thought the inspiration would flow… finally, the spigot would be freed and we’d all be just a little bit more excited to read what came out of it. Instead, I found the opposite. A brain so tired, so ready to give in…
I must’ve watched a million hours of television over holiday break. Melting a little further into the couch cushions with each passing day.
But at some point along the way, amidst the atrophy and the empty cupboards, I found the quiet.
And I’ll admit, I hate the quiet. I hate to be in the house on a gloomy day with nothing but the sound of the rain and the wheels on the road outside… I hate to leave that house even more, preferring something of an agoraphobic-light winterized version of myself… under the covers, snacking on sad animal crackers meant to have been saved for Austin while binge-watching Mind of a Chef.
But if I can overcome that lonely sloth that lives inside me, eventually I can force myself to face the quiet… and the quiet is where the creativity lives.
We hear nearly every day how our generation is over-burdened by technology. Too much stimulation sucking up the few cells we had left after the pot and the whip-its took their toll… and most of the time I’ll fight for that damn iPhone, because we’re codependent, you see.
I really don’t remember how we found our way anywhere in the age of maps, and a recent experience in Dublin proves we (I, most of all…) can’t go back.
But in the quiet… in the time of the ticking clock and the clicking keys… when I can hear myself think and breathe and be…
I realize just how much I miss the time in between.
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