Your days become about getting by. You get out of bed in the morning, go to work, maybe go to the gym. You eat take out and forget what it was like to cook. You rent movies, a lot of movies, and not even good ones. You don’t listen to the music that puts you in the world that belongs to your book, because you’re afraid. You’re afraid to give yourself up to it, which you must do wholly and completely. At the end of the day the source of this strength is dried up leaving you nothing left to give.
As each day passes, you are aware that you did not take the time to write, and the dust gathers on your desk. When you talk to your big sister on the phone, she asks if you’ve been writing, and because cannot lie to her, you tell her that no, you haven’t been writing. In her stern big sister voice she asks why not, but you don’t have a good excuse. You think about the last time you sat down to write and realize to your horror that it has been a year, a whole entire year since you lifted a pen or opened a document on your computer. You trace your path for the last year and see where you have fell short. You can’t say that you haven’t done anything, because you have. You have lived and grown, but none of it leads to writing.
You get a glimpse of what your life is like without it. You once believed that it was as essential to you as breathing, and now you see what your life becomes when you suffocate yourself. You ask yourself if you’re really doing this, if you’re really giving up. You’ve walked a path while staring at the ground, and it led you here, to this choice, to choose between the grayness and the fresh air.