Member-only story
When Creation Runs Dry
A yearning for ourselves
Oftentimes I sit in a daze, unsure of anything. I sit for hours, days. And yet nothing comes to me. There are no epiphanies, no moments of revelation. Simply, a vast landscape of white sweeps before me, a desolate and rolling mental scene.
This is not new. These persistent emotions, although a discomfort, have made themselves a companion to me. When they pat my shivering hand, I cannot escape the deception of their relief. Somehow, a warmth emanates from them. I am convinced of the virtues habits that I had vowed to not repeat, and find myself so easily slipping into the rut of corruption.
The days are pungent with the smells of quicksand, stagnation, procrastination, and self-harm. All of these.
I feel myself sway from one thing to the other, bouncing from one document to file. Unstable, unable to fight one battle at a time. They must all be won simultaneously, there is no time for tactics, no time for meditation. Just fighting invisible demons in my mind, the same ones I run to for comfort in the evenings when the sun is able to set. I tell myself that it is this time when I need my vices, when suddenly they are transformed from monsters, to loving creatures. That they contribute to my form and benefit my mind.
