I have been pushing myself through sludge lately. I have not been entirely unproductive, but that is only because I have taught myself enough to keep at the creative work even when the muses are absent and even when everything else feels quite crappy.
It is not that I am not inspired. More that I am exhausted, like a printer run out of a colour and churning out discoloured images. Too much blue. Too much red. Words gone gray and striped with empty spaces.
I have not been sleeping well. There is a part of me that stands sentinal through the night, watching, waiting.
It could be the weather turning hot and humid. I am not a summer person. I prefer the transition seasons of spring and autumn. Summer to me is an extrovert season, meant for loudness and showing off and glaring unforgiving unflattering light.
It could be the terminal dread of suddenly being called to sacrifice. Bills had to be paid and no one else could pay them. Tired, tired, tired of always being on the brink of a death sentence.
It could be, simply, this particular path within the orbit of my days, when I scrape too close to the black hole of my desires. And the hungers pulse loud inside me, a deafening rampage I must endure until I am way past and into a safer distance.