I used to write with reasonable prolificacy; a level of creative output that is enviable to me now, unimaginable even. I sit here for the first time in a good while; certainly the last time I wrote anything with the intention of posting it on the Internet was the day before the referendum result was announced — anything else with novelistic pretensions also died-off soon after. I haven’t written anything worthwhile for a good four months I’d say: my life is poorer for it. I’ve been enduring some real bleak moments of late: thoughts of dark make-up revolve around my head almost constantly; poisoning my will; corrupting hopeful day-dreams of the future. I find myself contemplating these negative preoccupations like an atheist admiring the ruins of an abbey. I know simply that if I am to salvage my sanity I must first resurrect my dreams if I can have any faith in the future. That’s easier said than done when you currently have as much enthusiasm for life as the average nihilist. But to reap, first I must sow —so that means writing again; more; all the time . Also I need to stop the self-destruction; the booze, et al. If I am to change the way I’ve been feeling of late, then I must change who I am.

Lord help me.


1 Comment

Filed under Creation, Depression, Life, Uncategorized, Writing

One response to “Serenity

  1. Pingback: Return of the Writing Dead II: | Dark Ink

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s