I once read somewhere that when you’re depressed, you write better. This kinda makes sense to me. When you’re depressed you find shadows, irony, pain – everywhere. Your inner voice shouts at you over small things no one else notices. Writing helps quiet it down. There have been times when I’ve literally sat at the keyboard and wept with relief because I’ve found somehwere to put all the thoughts that have been twisting my brain.
Perhaps this explains why lately, I can’t seem to write anything. I’ve just been living free and easy on the surface — content.
I’ve been too busy reading, sleeping in and eating ice cream to be bothered with emotional details. I’ve been washing curtains and browsing cook books, contemplating salads with fresh tomatoes, white beans, and bright olive oil.
My biggest obsessions are whether to cut my hair short and paint my dining room white. I am concerned with things like remembering which day the farmer’s market is closed.
Maybe it’s because I’ve just come off a week of soaking up lazy mornings with my good friends, sharing coffee and flipping through magazines while our kids played. So utterly delicious. It restoreth my soul.
I don’t know what it all means. Honestly, who cares? In fact, I don’t even know what else to say. When I try to think of something meaningful or clever, I get nothing. Nada.
So, um — see ya?