I feel freakishly weird. I feel like I'm not myself. I feel like someone quickly pulled me apart when I was asleep and hastily put me back together. I figure it was a rushed job because the pieces don't fit anymore. It makes me wonder if I ever knew who I actually was or if I'm still becoming who I'm supposed to be. I want to sit in a room with white walls and write, write, write until all the walls are covered. I cannot deal with not being able to write what I really want to write anywhere other than on my facebook, on old newspapers, every piece of semi blank paper I can find and on my arms. I think I'm on the verge of having a serious writers breakdown right now. I'd rather have clogged fallopian tubes than clogged creativity but thanks to a series of unfortunate events, I have both.
I can sort of deal with not being able to have kids because in a way I ám a mother; the mother of writer's blocks. But I can't help but wonder if I can't write because I'm infertile or if I'm infertile because I can't write.... Wait, this isn't making any sense...Or is it?
It's like my inability to reproduce is infecting everything else in my life, every single thing in my life is infertile now. I can't put together outfits, I can't draw, I can't sing, I look at the art I used to love so differently. I forgot how to let music lead me and dance. I forgot how to let my creativity lead me and cook. I forgot how to let my fantasy lead me and play.
I honestly never realized how magical imagination made my life until it left me.
Now it's dead.