I wrote for the first time in days. I think I was sick of not creating, even though the voices are dead to me now. I hoped that by getting something down on paper I would reawaken the trance that I so often felt when I was in the throws of my depression. And I did create, although it lacked the suffering of my early writing. I still don’t know if that is a good thing or a bad thing.
I want to start a project, a collection of short stories. Tales of horror. But I no longer live in that dark place. And I am afraid of forcing myself back there, of what will happen. The pills have killed my muse, silenced that thing inside my head that would constantly talk at me, and through me.
I didn’t realize how deep that rabbit hole went until I no longer fell. The pills helped me hit solid ground, but it was the fall that allowed me to create. There’s a bit of soul missing from my writing now. A bit of me was lost. The shadow Kat is drugged into silence like a wild chimpanzee taken from his home and thrown into a zoo to live out his days sedated.
I live in reality now, when before I had endless worlds in my head. I live in reality, but it is not in reality that I want to be. Can a writer still create worlds that they can no longer see?
What do you do when you experience a writer’s block that lasts for months? I’ve never hit a dry spell this long.