life, personal

A kind of writers block that isn’t quite writers block. 

I’ve had a pretty good few months writing wise. I’d go as far as to say I’ve been on a creative high. Like, I didn’t mean to blog multiple times a week, I didn’t plan on my posts consistently surpassing one thousand words. I was proof reading my writing back and actually enjoying the process.

It all just kind of happened. A happy accident.

Honestly, where is Britts and what have you done with the overly self-critical woman?

Anyway, like all highs do, it seems to be wearing off a little.

Not that I don’t love writing. I mean, considering that I’ve hand written five two hundred page journals in the last two and a half years, I’m pretty secure in my love of obsessive writing. We’re a well-established couple these days. I ship us.

Recently I felt like the world stopped. Actually, no. I feel like my world stopped, or at least slowed, while everyone else’s continued on at regular speed. (Over dramatic, egocentric, but let me have my moment.)

I can’t quite find the words to express this, which grates at everything within me. Words are my thing. I need them. I don’t have so many now.

I suppose I feel a little lost.

I should probably stop forcing myself to live up to the standards of the last month, and just document the few words that I do have. Perhaps they are worth more than the thousands I can spill out in times of more balance.

If nothing else, this is a quiet reminder to myself that slowing down does not equate to stopping.

I will continue to scribble dot point journal entries and I’m sure that eventually everything will come back together.

All my love, b.

 

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