I like writing because it makes me reflective. This past week, my well ran dry. The words were dust in my fingers. I could not mold a thing. And the slightest puff of air made all my efforts collapse. Writing every day in September was a good exercise. I enjoyed all the creative discoveries. So . . . what happened? I think back on my life, and I see an ebb and flow, like the moon's phases, where energy is sure and strong for awhile. Photographs, writing, socializing, all of it is sparkly-pleasing. Then, I hit a wall. Or fall in a hole. Or run out of steam. Regardless, I get quiet and still. Hibernate awhile. Let opportunities fizzle.
Because I am tired. Beyond the physical tired. Mentally, emotionally, creatively tired. And the things which were fun, which were a glorious defiance, are not fun anymore. They feel like work. It might last a day or a week, or I've had a few bad spells that cover months in dark clouds. I guess it could be called a mild depression, but it's not that I'm sad. I'm just . . . quiet. I don't think there's anything wrong with the cycle. It's just why I can be a difficult activist, artist, and friend. I make wonderful plans and then . . . I'm tired.
I so appreciate the people who can understand me. Thank you for your kindness. Your patience.
I don't go far. And I always return :)