It is the end of the day, and how much have I achieved today? Not much, to tell you the truth. I am in a period of simply existing. Not a period of transformation, not any growth; there is no romance, no bouts of inspiration, not even working particularly hard. I have indulged in leisure. I am reading more, sleeping more, moving my body when I desire.
Though, I am sitting blankly at the computer screen as words continue to deny their existence in my brain. I have an ache for writing, but there is purely fog in the part of my brain the stories come from. I have a desire to create many new things, but there is no drive behind the ideas. I write to understand myself, and all that comes out is a repetition; I am depleted.
I am in a period of simply existing. It is just about getting day to day, doing the work that needs to be done, but none spent on work I want to get done – a peril of the creative job is that you must (not really must, but it feels that way sometimes) be willing to create always.
There is something to be said of the days you can’t get yourself out of bed. Not that they are good for you, but that they make you realise how capable you are on the days you fit so much life into one day. The bed ridden days are made for recalibrating, for letting your heart reload, for letting your body rest and your mind reset.
It is the end of the week, and how much have I achieved this week? Not much, to tell you the truth. I am in a period of simply existing.