I am empty of words today. Like an ice cream tub scraped clean by a girl in need of comfort; I am without words.
Perhaps because I am struggling, I suddenly find it impossible to face the act of writing. My confidence has been given a shake and rattled loose all those doubts. I no longer know if I am capable of telling a story, let alone sharing one.
Isn’t this the usual insecurity of solitary arts? That all is well when you are encased in the bubble of your own creation, yet as soon as it comes time to announce it to the world – or an individual other than yourself – you begin asking questions and drawing conclusions that you would not ordinarily entertain.
I feel a little like a car trying to run on empty. I would so love to make it to the end of the road, but there is no fuel to get me there. I splutter and jerk and try to maintain any forward momentum, but without sustenance I can not make it. I give a final shiver of contempt at my uselessness and halt.
Will I ever make it off the side of the road again?
I have to believe so. Something, somewhere, will reinvigorate me. I will be topped up with the fuel of life itself and continue on my journey – to the market where I can buy enough ice cream to keep me comforted for any number of crises of faith. I will make it, eventually, because my purpose is to do so, and without this purpose I do not know who I am.
But, for now, I simply feel that I need a rest on the side of the road. Time to refuel.