I don't write anymore.
It's not that I've made the conscious choice not to. I just don't.
I don't spend that much time living in my own head. We miss out on an awful lot of living when we live locked away in our own minds.
I should, but I must hide to write. Be alone with that quiet voice murmuring within.
Work is a fabulous distraction.
It requires my focus. Every single minute.
By the time I've processed so much, I'm exhausted. I'm not ready for visitors at that point, especially if the visitor is me. I just want to shut down.
I not sure what I'm trying to prove.
I wonder sometimes if I'm supposed to hide away, in a cabin by the creek.
I know that I am. There is no doubt.
One day, when I've experienced more and know how the ending feels. Meanwhile I scribble sporadically and I wait.