been thinking a lot lately about creativity. how mine dried up over the last few years and how hollow i have rung in its absence. there’s so much life in these days its hard to hear, but the bellow has been deepening.

i feel the pull again, something in the deepest recesses clawing its way forward through the static clogging the well. it could very easily be the need itself with nothing to show for its exertions. it’d be hard to deny feeling bereft and begging the question i’ve avoided all my life, but i’d accept that in the end. what choice would there be?

touching old work, running my fingers through the threads i’d left hanging, tying off endings. leaning into it, leaning my forehead to it and being quiet. she’s so far gone and i love her. i love her so much. but i don’t want her back, and certainly not to satisfy this ache.

i’ll keep peeling it, skinning through the ugly. i’ll get to the heart soon enough.