Not the drive to write, mind you. My paper journals can attest to that. They’re rapidly filling But the desire to put into publicly accessible words what I’ve been thinking, feeling, and processing? It went totally out the window.
There was the finality of letting some things go, and settling into the peace of that.
A beloved aunt died, so there was some grief processing.
There was fretting aplenty, about a multitude of things, some big things and some things that were ultimately pointless, and my first full-blown anxiety attack in years (it caught me by surprise, upon waking one morning).
Things have felt like they’ve been off-kilter and speeding up, and I felt the need to withdraw a bit, to write more to and for myself alone. Sometimes, I think, this sort of thing has to happen.
When the cycle turns, though, and the time to share comes–as it always does, eventually–I hope to put some of what I’m finding hidden in the fallows into words written for the sharing.