Sixteen Days

A break.
I broke.
I took a break. 

After two years and nearly three months of daily blogging, I took a break and disappeared for the past sixteen days. Sixteen days of a void. Sixteen days of stress. Sixteen days of loneliness. Sixteen days of missing this part of myself. Sixteen days of suffocating in overwhelm. Sixteen days of anxiety. Sixteen days of longling. Sixteen days of not being myself because writing is my sanctuary. Writing is my drug. Writing is my lover. My first love, my only love, my forever love. I took a break from my love and I broke. I took a break from loving myself and I disappeared. Where was I? In a dark abyss of nothingness. Of lack. Of no connection. Of sorrow. Of death. A little death. But not the good kind. This was the rough kind. The kind made in horror films. The kind talked about it therapy rooms. The kind that brings about the sad realization that I am in fact a mortal and will leave nothing in this world when I'm gone. A kind of death to creativity - the only source of life I know. The only language I speak. The only friend I have. I broke and died a little inside, and outside. The wrinkles deepened because they had no escape. The feelings simmered because they had no outpour. The agony expanded because I am an addict and I didn't get my fix. 

What are you in the mercy of? 

To me, it's writing. I am writing's bitch. I'm writing's slave. I'm writing's weapon.
And if I don't show up I get scolded.
If I don't show up I get beat up.
If I don't show up - I die. 

Whatever you are in the mercy of - don't neglect it.