Dull. Damned. Dead.
I’d describe for you the room in which I sit, the desk at which I type these words, but there is nothing there. The detail would lack, it would be: bottle, glass, controller, fish tank. No glorious prose can exist here.
Something stopped firing. In the time it took to change how I experience emotions something changed in how I relay what I see to my brain. That precious spark is gone and although I don’t feel sad, I don’t feel suicidal or like I might self-harm, nor have I in weeks, I feel numb. Creatively numb.
And tired. I could sleep for a fucking week.
I used to imagine that my narrative voice was that of an old man sat by a fire with children huddled at his feet. I’d enjoy writing down as fast as I could the scenes that my imagination would unfold before me. And now it’s empty.
It has to stay this way, too. Because as highly as a valued my creativity I value my life more. If this medication is the reason everything is dulled then I just need to find a way around it. Perhaps I’ll have to settle for a different voice. But does that mean past work needs to all remain incomplete?
I’ve started plotting. Not something I am familiar with as I normally would just write and see where the story took me. But now I feel my brain might do better with a map. If it knows the destination perhaps, if I tell it the scene, perhaps colours will appear and shapes will form and I’ll see again.
Even though this sounds miserable I don’t feel miserable I suppose I feel pensive. Is that the word? A word that needs a big fat cigar and a wide brimmed hat, watching over the people below as they play on the beach and I sit hiding from the sun. Fuck that does sound depressing. I’m only hiding because I burn easily and ouch. I did burn easily this past weekend.
So yes. Plan… plan the story. Listen to music. Force these damn characters to appear. It’s all foreign and it’s nothing like I had to do before. How spoiled was I? To lie awake at night imagining, to be cleaning out my animals and having so much of a scene fly into my view I’d need to run and write it all down. Now I’m begging and pleading for something to appear. I keep telling myself there’s no point in coming off the medication. Maybe it would bring back my medication but I was often too unstable to write anyway.
There’s a balance here somewhere. I just need to find it. If I care enough to then perhaps I will.