The jeep bounces on bumpy roads and, I jiggle along, moving in sync with each bump and jump. I feel free, unfettered from all that has bound me thus far. It has been days since I called in to check on my little girls. It has been days since I caught up on the five on air dramas I have been tracking. I scroll through my Twitter feed, pausing every now and then to bookmark election prediction tweets. I write, rather try to write on demand. My brain demurs, the words starting and then stalling.
Did I want to write about my new tribe of perimenopausal women? Did I want to wax eloquent on the untamed beauty around me? Did I want to talk about regrets? The kind that comes from having unfinished manuscripts on my hard disk? Did I want to dig deeper into this unnamed angst I carry in my heart? Did I want to talk about all the hope I carry bottled up in the core of my being for a better tomorrow, a better future?
Instead, I type, retype, backspace and retreat.
Writing used to once be a form of release, a valve that released pent up feelings. It was catharsis. I processed my world through words. Now, words feel heavy. They drag me down with their insistence on being lyrically cadent, grammatically correct. The story sitting in my drafts folder needs more than a facelift. It needs structural surgery. It needs me to dig deeper into what I am really trying to say instead of hiding behind platitudes. I am not sure I am ready for that soul baring yet. The book proposal in yet another folder haunts me. I know I am almost there, what is remaining calls for honest work and it is labor intensive, so I resist.
This liminal space I am in, is starting to feel claustrophobic. The uncertainty and the not knowing is telling on me, it shows in the creases on my forehead, in the dark circles under my eyes. It has insinuated itself into the bent back and the slumped shoulders.
Will I rise? Will I shake off the malaise and conquer my demons? I do not know.
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