My mind usually swells with topics to write about. Ideas usually speed towards me with such force that I lose a few of them and normally one captures my attention so fully that I just have to write about it. Lately, that hasn’t been happening and I feel like a bored, scolded child sitting in a cold waiting room twiddling my fingers.
For the past few weeks, it has felt like I no longer have anything to say. I try to write about things that are happening to me but not much is happening. I go to work. I hang out with friends. I go to bed. I feel little to no inspiration to write about work. Actually, I feel little to no inspiration to write about anything.
The need to write is deeply rooted in who I am. So much so, that I start to feel uneasy and become uncomfortable in my skin when I don’t write. After writing a blog post, an essay, or a journal entry there is a calmness that overcomes me. I guess it comes from the settling of my thoughts. Many brilliant writers have said that they don’t know what they think until they write it down and I completely understand what they mean. Writing has always been my way to untangle my complicated thoughts and put them in a form I understand. I’m always waist-deep in a sea of jumbled words, and sometimes they only make sense after I’ve written them down.
It’d be easy to blame my anxiety or depression for my lack of inspiration but I think it might be the opposite. For the past few weeks, I’ve been happy and content. I have good days at work. I spend my afternoons with friends—watching movies, playing games, and going to the gym. I have momentary 30 foot waves of anxiety during a phone call but that passes and the sea is calm afterwards.
I should be thrilled. This is the best I’ve been in a long time. However, there’s still a gnawing feeling something isn’t as it should be. I mean, I should be able to do something that brings me so much joy. Right?
In search of new inspiration,