This is serious, folks. This is the worst case of writer's block I've had in three years. The weather is foggy in my head. I cannot figure out how to make it lift.
I know this is a first-world problem, and it doesn't threaten to destabilize anything else in my life. So I am grateful for it to be so. It does have me troubled. I like to write. Writing has come to mean much to me, catharsis, therapy, creative fulfillment, quiet joy. Exploring the Cave of Wonders that is my head provides me with heat and light for the soul.
The hearth is getting cooler. The fire is burning low. In the little cottage of my heart, I lie on the bunk huddled under blankets and watch the tiny flames sputter and dim. I want to arise and throw more wood on the embers, but the bin is empty save for a few twigs and a scrap of bark. Wind knocks on the door, beckoning me outside to forage for fuel.
But it is warm here under the blankets, and I am tired.