There were about two weeks there that I was quite convinced I'd never write again after this year was done. I was over it and I was doing the absolute minimal amount I could to say I'd written for the day so I wouldn't feel bad about breaking my New Year's Resolution so close to the end of the year. I can't have people disappointed in me. I'm learning that one about myself. Then a few things happened, some of them good, some of them bad. All of them made me do something I don't think I had been that great at doing lately - feeling something.
It's easy to get numb sometimes. To block out the world for a while because it's easier inside your little cocoon. The trouble is, there's no art in there. There's only you, shut off from whatever parts of yourself that you choose to close off. So I guess there's not even you. Just a fragment of you and you can't remember why you're not getting by. You just wonder why the wind doesn't feel quite as cold as it used to and indoors doesn't feel quite as warm as it should.
So I wasn't ever going to write again. It wasn't going to make me any money, it wasn't coming easily, and I was tired of it. Why bother?
Then, in chronological order, I watched a Pixar movie I had never seen (Ratatouille), I surprised my mom and she cried, I got to spend Christmas Eve with my girlfriend, Christmas, and a heating bill. Like I said, they weren't all positive.
The thing they all had in common is that they made me feel. Somehow, the wall I had formed around myself was being brought down against my wishes. I don't even know if I knew it was up.
But as soon as it fell, the world was different again. Not bright, not easy, and I'd certainly still rather hide in my bed than face most days, but it was all doable again. Even writing.