After a particularly distressing weekend with sad news from home, my surrender of the NaNoWriMo challenge, and two sick kids (AGAIN!), I seem to have lost all motivation to even… breathe.
Call me Gretel, who, after carefully laying down her trail of breadcrumbs in the heart of the darkest woods, turns around to find them gone. There’s no way back. I must move forward.
It’s the forward part I’m having trouble with.
I was torn with the decision to throw in the towel on the WriMo novel. I hit 23,090 words yet could go no further. Strangely, I feel at peace now. And I feel accomplished. To date it is the longest piece of work I’ve ever written and that in itself is a great achievement. I still intend to finish, but in my own time. When I have the time…
Yesterday there was fog. I ventured out to buy milk and was met by a thick, damp haze. I stepped forward almost blindly, trusting that my feet would remember the path it so often treads. I let the fog envelop me and didn’t miss the irony. Me, stumbling through a fog.
Now I am at a crossroads. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to cook, clean, or go to class. I don’t want to write notes, novels or essays. I don’t want to try, think, or care. I just want to lay here with a mind as empty as a clean glass jar. Waiting to be filled with something bright and alive.
I’m having a patch of grey skies. Someone send me a sunbeam.