Well, I didn’t quite make the end of last year but I’ll be darned if I don’t make the start of this one. After a red-eye, a six hour nap, a home-cooked family dinner, a night of furious dancing, a bagel run, a beach run, leftovers, a movie, and a rent payment, I’m ready to face the blank page of this week.
The time I used to spend writing, I’ve lately spent agonizing over why I can’t seem to write anymore. Part of me thinks it’s because I’m likely depressed, and part of me thinks it’s because I’m no longer lonely. And then the third, unbothered part of me laughs at my shock that, yes, obviously, both can be true.
I used to take pride in the hours and hours I spent alone. They made me feel like I was strong and independent, and they encouraged reflective, long-winded writing. I’ve since gotten used to spending real time with friends, and accepting their support, and I’ve realized I was wrong. Now, most often, I don’t feel nearly angry or sad enough to turn to writing as my way through those feelings. Is that the plight of the artist, or is that me acting out our collective belief in the classic catch-22?
While frustrated with my awkward adjustment to new circumstances, I have to acknowledge that I wouldn’t trade an easy essay for even half of my old solitude. And anyways, it’s probably better for me to struggle through a piece of work than merely observe as it flows naturally through me from some other source. If I must fight for it, I hope I end this next year feeling like I learned something from that fight.
It feels auspicious that our fresh start landed on a Monday. Thank you for reading. Happy New Year :)
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