The Snows of Eden

Hello my pretties,

   It's been a while since I've written anything here; work and lethargy have conspired to dry up my thoughts and sap my energy. I hate these droughts of thought and action, when torpor overtakes me, rendering me nothing more than an automaton receiving a monthly paycheck. Still, I needed to shut down for a bit. I needed to stop thinking so much.

   It has been snowing in Eden, the rich and fertile ground of thought is, at the moment, cold and lifeless and barren of rebirth. It's scary and it's lonely, wanting to write something of substance yet being stymied by a vast nothingness that is unfamiliar and sinister. This is reality, though; there is nothing in me right now. I want to scream in frustration and I want the pain of emptiness to go away. My face is haggard and drawn, sleep deserts me, the ennui of life sickens me. Sounds are dull and muted, so I miss the half-tones that separate mundane from spectacular. I am no longer seeing the invisible, and it makes me want to cry.

   These times will pass, as they always do. Perhaps this emptiness is necessary, so that I will appreciate the times when the flow of words come easy, when thoughts are bright and scintillating. These times that are bereft of anything, however, are gut-wrenching, and I am almost nauseous at not being able to write something of note. I know I am not a good writer, but I am a writer nonetheless. I need to write. I cannot write. This must be a definition of hell.

   I will bid you, dear reader a sad good-bye. I will be back when a spark shows up in my besotted and vacuous mind, and I will rejoice. Although I have been through these famines before, I always have this fear, this horrible and unthinkable fear, that this time, the emptiness will not go away.

   The snows of Eden are cold, my friend...



DentedSyke DentedSyke
56-60, M
Mar 7, 2009