I’m at a loss, loss of thought. Does anyone else experience this? I’m sure they do.
But today, I feel at a loss. I’ve lost my outward me, my essence, my drive.
What am I doing? Am I even doing anything? Suddenly life is going through the motions and I have not created a thing. Inspiration, imagination, creativity, strength, worth: they’re lost. Where did I lose them?
This is my fault. Why? I’ve domesticated myself. Not in a 50’s house wife making her husband meatloaf kind of way, that I will never be morally able to accomplish. Besides, you need to have at the very least a relationship to consider cooking for something that resembles a significant other. No, no I’m still just me in my world. I have added no one.
Well, that’s not entirely true. My domestication comes from the life of the being I am now responsible for. I have in my hands the life of a kitten who is entirely mine. Her name is Lux. She and I share my basement suit. I call her my little girl, she probably calls me Pink-Thing-With-The-Food. I pride myself on the belief that my cat is NOT people.
But I digress. I haven’t written anything. Where’s my authorial voice? I don’t remember leaving it at the pub or the hair dresser or in class. Last time I wrote anything was about a month ago. A month?! And I call myself a writer. I should be scoffed at.
Oh look, the clock struck midnight. I’m officially twenty-three, but that’s not really true. If we’re going by exacts I’ll be twenty-three at the stroke of about 6:30am. Don’t wish me a pleasant new age just yet.
Where are my words? I feel like I’ve left them in the back pocket of my jeans, only I can’t remember which jeans. I can’t wash any of them because if I do I may ruin my words. But, they’re lost in a mountain of unwashed jeans, with thousands of pockets to search and I just don’t have the energy to look through them all.
Maybe my words will find me. They’ll scurry up to my door like a lost dog that’s just remembered where home is. They’ll saunter up, proud of their accomplishments, proud that they finally remember where they’re favourite bowl of food is filled. They’ll wag their tails and lick my hands and tangle around my legs in joy that they’ve finally found that person that gives them the best scratch behind the ears.
Or maybe, just maybe my words are waiting for me. Waiting for the time that I’m ready to see them. They’re there, in the shadows, lurking, watching, waiting. I’m not ready to see them yet, I’m not ready to feel enough, to be enough to use them. I haven’t thought of them lately, I haven’t tried to find them. I’m not ready to use them.
Either way, I feel like I’ve lost something. Do I grieve? Do I morn? or do I just go on? Son of a bitch, I almost rhymed. Good writers don’t rhyme. You see, you see how empty these words are? These aren’t mine. Mine aren’t with me.
I’m at a loss, but they’ll be found or come back or show themselves. Just you wait, just you wait.