Running Out of Things to Say?
Another day of not wanting to turn to words, to express myself, my self, well, whatever it is I have been turning to express these years of exploring this—words, writing, the writing life, a writer's life, whatever it really is. I suppose this could be simply a low-grade February depression in response to the return of ice (this morning) and now clouds and rain (now). But the part of me that is trying really hard to give up self-delusion now that I'm in my 50s is saying something different, in a voice that's mostly muffled but constant: whatever this is, it isn't enough. And with that, whatever I thought I had to say or wanted to say seems to have gone silent for now. So my quiet life, my life with breathing room, with space and time, with room to focus, a life that's rejected faux busyness in favor of attempts at the authentic, and honesty at the expense of getting ahead—well, something's gotten lost or derailed and I find myself not very good about sorting out what it is. I may believe, as I state on my web site, that words are all we have. But right now, at this point in my life, somehow words aren't enough. Moratorium time?
