I don’t write any more. I don’t have the time or I don’t have the energy or I don’t have the vision or I don’t have the hope. What is there to say? Who is going to listen? Does it matter if someone ‘listens’ or reads? Shouldn’t I write for myself and not others? Perhaps I used to think I wrote for God or because it was a calling to something higher and better. Maybe I thought if that was the case it would be bound to ‘work’ or change lives or I’d be guaranteed success or no effort would be in vain.
Perhaps it was the thesis that sucked me dry, life and soul. Perhaps it killed my creativity and imagination. Perhaps it was the gradually sudden disappearance of ‘church’ or ‘faith,’ as I have always understood it, that left me with nothing to write about. I suppose, in a way, it is a time of ending, of death, or perhaps, more creatively, a time of winter. It may yet be followed by a spring. I don’t know, but it seems likely.
For now I feed my son. I follow him around so he doesn’t get hurt. I talk to him. I keep his butt clean and his clothes dry. I help him go to sleep at night and wake in the morning. When I think about it, that process has its own kind of creativity.
I miss writing – the feeling of being alive, of having something vital to communicate, but this time of ‘death’ (winter) does have its charm. I have finally chosen to ignore all outside obligations and focus instead on the responsibilities and duties I have taken upon myself, not out of guilt, but out of love. Sometimes I forget just how great that burden was, and just how free I feel now I no longer carry it.