I sometimes feel like this. Like in between being a mother, and a wife, and an employee, and a child, and a friend, and a writer that sometimes I give so much of myself that there’s nothing left. I don’t expect to ever be complete in all those aspects of my life at the same time but right now I feel like I’m now quite alive in any of those parts. It isn’t a depression. It isn’t a sickness. It isn’t even a fatigue because that implies that I feel tired and I don’t. I don’t really feel…at all.
I am a vessel, empty, scraped dry. I am Mars. I am space.
I am you, sometimes. Except perhaps I say it more loudly.
I am empty. I am watching myself competing in a race and it scares me that I don’t care if I win or lose. I am…probably only making sense to me.
I am taking a break. Some time for me. I’m giving myself permission to not blog for a little while. I’m going to read. To think. To ruminate. To collect. To reassess. To keep a little of me for me. For now.
I’m not quitting. I couldn’t if I wanted to. After all, writers write, always.
I’ll see you in a week. Maybe two.
I’ll see you on the other side.