I never thought I would ever experience writer’s block.
I’m still here, dear friend. I’m not entirely here, but enough of me is here so that I can write this much.
Someone close to me is sick. Very sick. They are sick in a way that scares me more than having writer’s block. The knowledge of this is making me feel a little less human, and a little more fragile.
I can put on a brave face, up to a point. I can still talk, and ramble on, and do anything to stop myself from thinking about it. I can still laugh. But it hides in the back of my head, and it will not let me live in stories. And the words don’t come any more.
I don’t really have anyone to talk to about this, but… it helps to name it. It helps that I can write this much. It means that it’s not forever, that I’m tougher than I look, that I will be back again. What a strange kind of therapy it is… no wonder everyone does it.
I’m still here. I don’t know when all of me will be here. I’ll have to wait a while, and see what happens.