I haven’t been writing.

And it’s funny to feel that way, when I made this blog all for myself. In that most symbolic guise of having somewhere to put my thoughts away. If they really do go away.

But what is there to write anyway?
When it’s all the same– the seasons and the cycles, and the people around, and life going about its business, and my mind racing or frozen in a daze or too weary to think at all.

I haven’t been writing.

Or maybe I just have not been writing in the same way that I always did.

But does that matter?

I don’t know.

What I have now is that lingering feeling of non feeling and a buzzing in my head.

And then, in the buzzing, comes a moment of sabotage where a sudden deluge of thoughts and feelings comes and drowns you dead.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t been writing.

I’ve been struggling to finish a very personal paper for family therapy class this month. It’s the last paper I have to finish for this sem and I can’t finish it. Maybe I’ve just been overly feeling my way through the whole process. Or maybe it has made me feel so many things again. Everything. All together.
Again.

I haven’t been writing.

I haven’t been writing well enough.

Or maybe it’s been loud and blinding everywhere I go. I’ve opened a lot of scars these past few weeks and it hasn’t been easy. But what is easy in this world, anyway? And isn’t that the best way to get back and hear yourself again? Open some doors and windows you’ve shut close so that the pained voice you always hear mumbling gets louder and clearer, and more pronounced, and warmer, and familiar, and then you recognize it’s you. That voice, it’s you.

I haven’t been writing.

That’s what I tell myself on days like this.
And I try.
Oh, God knows I try.
God knows I try so hard to be writing.

But I haven’t been writing.

Or have I?