sad gothic fairyHello my gothlings.  As I sit here, my coffee is getting cold and my cigarette is turning into a long stick of ashes and I can say I don’t really care.  Right now there is very little that I care about.  My life has taken, what is to me, an abrupt turn towards a dark void.  The desire to write has left me.  That’s very scary for me because no matter what I was going through before, I could always write about it.

I know writers are supposed to use these times to make great stories.  It rings true to a reader and is cathartic for us.  But it doesn’t seem to be working that way for me.  Even this post is just another desparate attempt to avoid dealing with my life.

Will this go away?  Will the need to write return to me?  Will this stage of my life become fodder for a book?  I have no idea.  I don’t even know if I want it to.  What does it mean when something that hurts so badly scars over enough to dissect it?  Does it mean that it’s over and you’re healed or does it mean you’re a callous person?  But then the even worse flip side of it is what if this pain never goes away?  What if it just continues to get worse and I can’t even look at it?