I haven’t been writing.
I’ve had things going on. Fairly big things. Things I would normally need to write out.
It’s not like I haven’t been processing and figuring and examining and analyzing. I have been. Repeatedly. Compulsively. Excruciatingly. But I haven’t been writing about them.
I usually write when I need to sort out my thoughts … when I need to lay it all out on paper and Venn-diagram my way into determining where my head and heart merge into my truth. My life lately has been ripe for parsing; has been supremely fertile ground for digging in and digging up. And yet I don’t seem to have anything to say. About any of it.
Part of me thinks there is nothing that I can say. If sometimes, some things, are just so … omnipresent and unavoidable and weighty and real that there exists no other course or choice but to take a deep breath and just say, “OK.” And then let it all be.
Part of me wonders if I’ve maybe become immune. If there are simply a finite number of times and ways in which a person can be pained by the same people and the same acts, merely mutated into a different shape and form on a different day. Part of me wonders if the callouses are tough enough now that I don’t feel the new wounds.
Part of me wonders if I’m just done. If I’m over it. If I’ve adjusted, moved on, accepted. If I’ve truly let go.
And part of me wonders if I’m self-protecting. If I’m keeping the jagged edges just past arm’s length and not getting close enough to touch the painful parts. If maybe I’m not writing because I’m not really dealing.
I don’t know. I really, truly don’t. I just know that until I do know? I don’t have anything to write.
