I haven’t been writing lately. Well, that’s a lie. I write all day at work, five days a week. But that doesn’t really seem to count.
This blog hasn’t been updated in weeks. The last entry in my journal was in March. There’s just…nothing.
So I write all day at work. Then I come home, and my laptop sits, closed, on the chair, on the table, on the cat-hair covered rug. It might as well be locked in a closet (which apparently, I did to my poor little kitty all day yesterday). I read The Hunger Games series. I do yoga. I watch New Girl and Mad Men. I keep having the same conversation, over and over. I look at my laptop. I feel my journal in my bag, smacking against my thigh as I walk to the train.
But still: nothing. No writing.
I went to Indiana last weekend to visit my family. By Sunday afternoon, my dread at driving back to Chicago, alone, was overwhelming. I felt it in my stomach. I didn’t want to go. It’s not that I was dreading coming back to the city. I shouldn't have been dreading the drive; after all, it’s not like I haven’t taken the trip alone, countless times.
I just didn’t want to do it.
About halfway back to Chicago, right when I was passing the windmills that seem to go on for infinity, the little red lights blinking, the blades spinning rhythmically, I figured it out: I didn’t want to be alone with my own thoughts.
No wonder I can’t write.
You guys, I don't mean to get all emo on you and everything, but it makes me feel like this:
Maybe that's not it, exactly, but I had to get that song on here, somehow. And it's something. (In more uplifting news, I'll be seeing The Dirty Projectors at Pitchfork this year!)
I'm off to my hot yoga class now, where I'll try to focus, find my center, and most importantly, not fall down. In the meantime, I'll just try to keep in mind:
You'd see a million colors if you really looked.