The nothing. The emptiness. The despair.
I write about it today, because this is all too real. There are days when I have multiple ideas to write about and, in due course, I toss about sentences that would eloquently describe the topic. I try desperately to hold on the the globules of momentary sunlight, ideas, freedom, breath, life….
Then there are days like these. The Days after I’ve been run to death and put away frothing and sweaty (equine reference). Days that I’m all out of everything. I hurt all over, I’m exhausted and I have what feels like just a sliver of reason at all. I’m all out of cares to give.
“The Never Ending Story” is my life. I’m overwhelmed by changing life, changing medicine and changing moods. I can’t focus on what’s good for me. All I can focus on is what is in front of me. “The Nothing” is real. It steals hopes and dreams and brings only hopelessness and despair.
“The Nothing” has many names, mine is fibromyalgia.
All this to say that I’ve got nothing to say, nothing to give and I’ve got to start all over in the brilliance department some other day.