Over the past year and a half, my inspiration to write publicly has slowed from a gushing waterfall, to a meandering stream, to a tenuous trickle. Until now, there’s only been small glimpses of magic, a pure, faint mist in my journal that I keep for my eyes only.
I’ve found myself getting lost in the “normal.” Dreadfully, exhaustingly comfortable in the monotony of daily life. It scares me. It feels like hypnosis, as if I could slip back into the trance of it all and forget that I had ever truly lived. The call of thrill and adventure has become weaker as my eyelids have grown heavy. It’s no coincidence that my urge to write has run dry. Adventure and thrill, once tangible and breathtaking, have now become hazy ghosts- wisps of what used to be. I miss weaving my humor into every post over a glass (or two) of wine. I miss the faint sound of Spanish music playing from the kitchen and a new flight confirmation email buzzing on my phone.
How do I write stories of my adventures if every day of my life is exactly the same?
This can't be the rest of my story.
I can’t fade into the monotony.
So now begins the fight to get it back. To open my eyes to the wild and beautiful things again- to quench parched earth with rushing waterfalls. Because there’s some kind of magic that I need to put out into the world in order to feel okay in it.
I must speak, regardless of if I am heard.
I must live, so there will be stories to write.
I must write to remember how I truly lived.