I’ve been in a slump.
Getting up before the sun would even think to rise. Brush my teeth. Go to work. I’m going through the motions, but I’m not getting anything done. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid, or just ambivalent. I need to start writing it all down, but the words won’t come. I’m typing this now in hopes it will act as some sort of remedy.
I’m uninspired precisely at the time it hurts me to be. I’ll feel my hand gripping around the pen, ink will spill out, but the paper inevitably crumbles, again, into the discard bin. I’m the type who stresses easy, whose hair is turning grey as my fingers run against the keyboard.
Do you ever feel like an imposter in your own life? Like you’re faking yourself out? I look at the steps that I have taken and I can’t remember whose shoes I was wearing when I made them. I look at this reflection of a person, but she doesn’t look back.
It’s hard to motivate myself to do much these days. Right now I’m just waking up, breathing in, and trying to take in the moments that surround me. Be it in the landscape, or within my own imagination.
I count my blessings, so to speak. I realize others would be reeling to be in my position. And because of that, I feel like I live a life I only partly deserve. I’m fearful of what lies ahead (though I seldom admit it).
The blank canvas to me is not a sign of opportunity— of brilliance awaiting to be born—but rather, a symbol of neglect, an icon of the inability to commit.
A death sentence of unrealized potential.
I don’t want that to be so.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll reach for the brush.