Numb

Perhaps I don't have anything to say anymore? I have opened this laptop to the blank document and stared for hours on end, waiting for some kind of insipiration. Words once flowed out of me like waves to the shore. To breathe was to create. Images upon images. Even in the darkest moments of my life, these pages filled with color and torment. As if I was reaching out in desperation for someone to share in my sorrow. For it is only suffering if it is in silence. I have been silent for a long time. "You need routine," the doctors would say. "In routine, you find stability. And in stability you will find your peace. And also, don't trust all of your thoughts. This kind of disease can be tricky." And so I burried the voice within. The voice that came from the downward spiral of a shattered heart. "It's a cruel and grueling life," it would say. "A place where death is the only certainty and all else is fickle." I have heard many names for this voice. Pessismist, sketptic, cynic and misanthrope are but a few of those names. Depression was perhaps the most common categorization. So I shoveled the medicaton down my throat and as time went on, I establsihed routine. I made new friends. I found love. For all this, I am thankful. However, whenever I come back to this blank page......nohting flows. There is no colorful depiction of the depraved. No vivid visualization of the demons I once held within. I had thought...perhaps...that when the grief had passed and my heart had mended, I would write about life's great triumphs and passion. That my writings would hold joy and light. But instead, I am left with shallow words. As if I lost my voice in the monontonous cultivation of stability I had always craved.