I couldn't write. I couldn't imagine. I couldn't even read.
I started journaling again, trying to find a way back to myself, and eventually everything worked out. These days I'm flowing over with ideas and inspirations, and passing through the fire gave me the perspective to realize how awesome that is.
Today, in a fit of brainstorming that has become the norm again, I grabbed up a random notebook to scribble on and discovered it was the same one from this summer. Flipping through it, I found a note to my writing self, written during a time when I was still struggling to figure out if that part of me was even alive anymore.
My writing side was the first love of my life before any humans (though I did have a rather enthusiastic crush on Batman as a kid), and so I'd like to share an excerpt from that note as a late Valentine's Day post, in honor of the bond we have with our creative selves:
I'm asking for your hand in magic.
I want you to make me fly again.
At least come and press the treadle in my mind;
cause little moments to flare
like the eyes of animals at night.
Teach me again to approach them at an angle
that sees the shimmer.
Shine me on to a better, more holy land.
If you didn't have anyone for Valentine's Day, you still have yourself, and your stories. Trust me, they're a better gift that most earthly bonds you'll create, though I admit there's still some they can't top ( ;-) ).
I hope you had a lovely day yesterday <3