I don’t feel like conspiring to write brilliantly. I don’t want to care that the creativity has gone out of me like a candle in the wind. I think I shall never write again because we are not in the blackouts of depression, despair, or constant self-damnation to write from the heart and soul again.
There’s a website I’m linking here called Writing Forward
that has creative writing prompts, but I haven’t been doing them. Maybe because I’m lazy, maybe because there’s no audience to which to write, maybe the prompts just don’t speak to me like writing about the dark side of life.
But if I can’t write about things other than me and World War III, then what kind of writer am I?
Maybe I’m afraid. Writing never comes easily anymore, and I think I’m afraid of failure. Insert failure/success cliches.
I bought a book for $4.00 full of creative writing exercises that I hope will inspire me. Perhaps this is a ghost I will always be pursuing.
So we met with Therapist 2x this week instead of the usual once-a-week session. I think as a group we were in a better mood and there wasn’t such a self-imposed hurry or demand to get everything said and covered we could because we know there’s another session coming soon. So I think we were more relaxed. Today we exchanged first bumps, which is somewhat innocuous on the human “touch” scale.
We had a flashback tonight. I’m scared to think about it, but we can not let fear dictate which insiders we help and which ones we don’t . What if the girl in the flashback is fleeing towards us? Are we going to close our minds to her and the help she needs?
I don’t know what you expect me to say.
Nothing really. I just think we need to be open to sights, sounds, and feelings and not abandon insiders. Why so angry?
B L O C K
I’m sad. a teardrop falls in my hand.