Lately things don’t come easily. Actually, many things are coming easily, as if by fiber, but this makes it difficult to write.

I am settled in a home that I like, with a boy that I love, in a city that offers much around its corners. Contentment reigns. Alarm clocks are muted. In other words: “It’s all good….”

And so I do not write. There is no spur. This makes me think.

I remember reading or having debates in which the subject of medication for mental disorders is bandied about. Is it good to medicate those with certain disorders, despite the fact that many times it is those disorders that inspire some of our greatest artists? Which is better: Starry Night or a peacefully minded Van Gogh?

I ask this because I feel akin to those whose struggles help them to create. For it is my own struggles that have acted as my greatest muse. Unrequited loves, a brokenheart, and verbal hate crimes have all caused me to take pen to paper. And what of my own anxiety? The entirety of this blog has been birthed as antidote to the demands of work and school.

And here I am today having triumphed for the moment, or at least settled down, and I am left with nothing to say.