I wrote the following in December 2020 :
I will not write about my past. I tried and tried but my tears kept smudging the pages and my pen refused to keep going. It refused to continue in such chaos. I sat there for hours looking at the ruined paper wishing my stories would come alive. That is pretty hard to do when one feels dead inside.
Still, I sat there and I waited hoping that I would force myself to create. Then hours became days, and days became years, and my tears no longer wanted to belong to me. They told me I tortured them too much. So they left me. That is when my sadness turned to anger and eventually my anger got tired of me and left too. It could no longer sit in my immobile and numb body.
In life, there comes a time when your actions (or in my case inactions) forces you to be ready for change. I am ready and will no longer strive to write the stories that don’t make me feel alive.