Writing Again

I haven't written in a long time. It's OK. It's not OK. It's both. Circumstances and brain chemistry removed my desire for creation. Floating in a purgatorial funk for many months. I can't call it writer's block because that implies that I was trying to write but couldn't. I wasn't trying to write. I wasn't even upset with myself for not wanting to write. It was OK to not want to write. Perhaps my writing time had passed.

Deep down I knew it wasn't OK. I felt that if I let this go that something within me would die and it could never come back. Life couldn't be the contented void that I saw stretching out before me. Then I went to see my doctor for my annual physical. After the usual pleasantries and standard medical inquiries she started asking me odd questions. I answered the best I could, not knowing where she was leading. Then she asked me outright if I thought I was depressed. I told he no, because I wasn't feeling sad. She pointed out that my answers to her questions pointed to an overwhelming apathy. As someone once said, the opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference.

So after two months of medicinal trial-and-error fraught with a staggering array of side-effects, I suddenly find myself not only desiring to write, but actually writing. The words look so beautiful forming themselves on the page. My fingers dance over they keyboard like the embrace of a long lost lover. Better living through chemistry.