I’m at a point where writing every day is starting to feel like a chore. I know I have to do it. I know it’s important that I don’t get out of the habit of writing all the time, but most days, I just don’t know what to write anymore.
It has been a winter of dark thoughts and tough moments, a winter I never thought I’d live through. You know you will lose people throughout your lifetime, it’s not something that is such a surprise to think about, but when you actually start to lose the most important people, the sting just does not leave.
And then there’s the looming fear that we will succumb to the new variant and everything will go back into complete shutdown. Every delay in return to work, for my husband, feels like a delay in getting our lives back. Every delay feels like an omen. A sign that life will never feel full and joyful again, that masks are permanent, that travel will always be hindered by covid testing and country health warning levels.
Writing feels like such a chore lately, and so I didn’t do it yesterday. I didn’t even write a journal. And yet, I know that’s where I find my peace and vent. That’s where I dump my thoughts and feelings so that I can move on with the day, and without writing, I harbor stress throughout every task. So I’ll keep on writing, even if my writing is about nothing in particular.