Writer's Block
Maybe it was never about the words
I don’t think I am who I once thought I was.
Or maybe I never was. Maybe it was always a mask—a shield—to cover a gaping hole of emptiness.
Where is my drive and thunder? Where is the need to shine?
Friends are on their second and third books. I am struggling to write a caption for Instagram.
I’m baffled and grief stricken all at once.
Tears well in my eyes. My soul wonders aloud if it’s being crushed?
I say I need rest. But is this what I truly want?
I’m trying to trust God’s will. I’m trying to follow the green flags. I’m going where the doors open, and right now they’re opening inward.
“This is all wrong!,” I yell.
But who am I to say?
Did I ever really know myself?
Maybe this is who I was all along.
Maybe in learning to trust in God I am finally enough as is.
Maybe that drive and thunder was a desperate attempt to fill the hole.
The tears are not for what was, but for the emptiness and pain that fueled that desperate drive.
Words will come again. They will.
And this time they will come for me.
The addiction to create in order to be seen and loved seems to have been removed. At least for now.
What is left?
Me.
I am enough.
I feel this so much. You're right, that constant drive to create, create, create is "a desperate attempt to fill that hole." Like nature we have cycles, productive and fallow. And aren't we part of nature, too? These are the things I imagine every writer feels, but doesn't tell the world. Thank you for sharing.
Beautifully vulnerable. Thank you for sharing!