Writers Block

For some reason, I’m suffering from unshakeable depression.  It’s as though there’s an unsatiable chasm in my chest, draining away all of my energy, creativity, and distorting all of my emotions.
This is also affecting my ability to write, and make beautiful things come to life in words.  Which causes further frustration, leading to more wilting away of self.
I’m finally home with my husband again – there’s no desire or longing for our relationship to improve, I wonder why it even exists.
I’m finally back in my house, to do as I please – and the reminders that I am literally alone in this empty part of the country creep in, shadowing the gratitude I have to being home.
I’m finally able to sit down and write my story for an upcoming anthology – and nothing feels right.  Nothing desires to be written.  The story I am working on I am going to shelve, and see if something else comes up.  I have until mid-May, surely there’s a story floating out there wishing to be told.  I hope very much that it jumps into my head and allows me to bear it witness.
Story telling is my life.  Without it I am nothing.  My religious convictions are my life, without them I am nothing.
Today, I lie in bed – my mother tending my son, both thinking I am asleep – as my emptiness lends to the withering of my soul.  I must find something to slay the beast, in order to perk my spirits!  Alas, is this depression debilitating.
And I roll over, closing my eyes, wishing the world away.

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