Or at the very least, write the way I like to when I want to and how I have to in order for the right things to get out onto paper. I have a process. My process. And it is the only process that works for me. I can't sit and toil and think-think-think myself into making the words string together.
That scenario only ends with a rapid-fire delete assault.
Things come to me in a flood. The words spill out in front of me and I can't focus on anything other than getting them out.
But I've had a dam as of late. Or, had.
You see, extreme stress will ruin a multitude of things. It robs you of energy. Of light. Of happiness and laughter and will remind you in those free moments that it still lingers. So the cracks of joy aren't as sweet because they have a bitter shadow.
Stress will sneak in when you're attempting to be still, and wag its finger at you while you plead and dig at your brain to please be quiet. It is persistent if nothing else. And it will not fail at taunting you that it is there, in between your ribs and your belly button, nesting in and taking root.
I had been in a constant, gnawing and grinding state of stress for so long that I literally forgot what it was like to not be.
And now I'm not. The how, where and why isn't important. Yet.
Maybe, one day, I'll write about it. When the words start to come again.
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