Of writing and despair

Confessions.

I have not been writing in three months now. And it feels like shit. My gut is wrenching in the background of daily mundane life chores. Like a murmur. As I make my morning coffee, send one job application, tweak my resume, respond to an email, and begin to prepare the lecture for the week after, my gut is squeezed and twisted slowly and steadily.

Despair creeps deep in my writing, mind, sight, mood. Do I write to heal my depression? Or do I write because of it?

“You are too dark,” he said. How dare he? as if there was something wrong with me.

I learn to live with the darkness everyday. To write it. I find a place of acceptance for it, in myself first, and then in others.