I'm taking a break from writing.
Something terrible has happened in my family, pretty much the "worst thing, ever." It's like a death, but not, but worse in some ways, and now a black curtain has fallen over everything. It is hard to think; in many ways, I've had to shut down the creative side of my mind, because it hurts so goddamned much.
The world is burning. Everything tastes like ashes. Words, when I write them, mix with tears and turn to mud on the page. I've written nothing good in a week and a half.
For a moment one night, in the solitude and safety of my quiet kitchen--husband out playing soccer, baby put to bed--I allowed it all to come rushing out in words, which I saved on paper, because I'm learning the value of these things. A poem formed out of it, lyrical and heart wrenching, beautiful because it's honest. It would be an amazing poem, if only I had it in me to work on it. But, honestly, I don't have the heart. I have had to shut it down to keep moving through the world, and I can't bear to touch those words. Not yet. Not now. Maybe someday.
What's more, all of my make-believe worlds feel trite right now. Ridiculous. Childish and naive.
Mentally, I'm shoveling all of it into the guest room of my mind, piling it on the bed, and shutting the door with the pledge that I'll sort it out, later. I'll go through it all, later. Right now, I just need to shut the door and walk away.
I'd like to say something beautiful about life right now, but I can't bear that, either. So, I'll just say, please, hug the one you love most in the world, then write down for them your passwords and pin-numbers, just in case. Then go see your doctor for a checkup.
Love you, Ian. Come back to us soon.
LLH
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