I haven’t been able to write for the last few days. Or has it been months? I have no idea any more. I did quip now and then. But to me, that does not count. Life kept me busy, and my inclination to think dries up whenever that happens. If I ain’t thinking, writing I am not.
I hate this behaviour of mine. Why must I be in a routine to find time or energy to write? It isn’t as if the words dry out. I just can’t put them out.
A possible answer is that I love my comfort zone. Anything out of the ordinary and I shut my brain down. I can’t think. I can’t do anything that I routinely do. Or so I convince myself. I enter a shell waiting for things to get back to normal. Waiting for me to find my comfort zone again. And then, and only then, do I begin living again.
Until then, I find cheap getaways. Scroll through YouTube. Or news. Rewatching already watched shows. Feel tired. Sleep a lot.
Such a menacing beast this comfort zone is. It makes me feel comfortable with and in control of my life. Yet soon, the same control shackles me down to the routine. The lack of stress the routine brings suffocates me. Stagnates me. Am I then even alive any more?