It’s not like there isn’t a whole universe to write about.
It’s not like the sun doesn’t rise every morning and set every night. It’s not like the world doesn’t explode in thousands of colors. It’s not like the sky wasn’t the perfect shade of blue today and the trees the perfect shade of green as I drove down those country roads with the radio on.
It’s not like there aren’t complex and beautiful human relationships weaving a tapestry of emotion and intimacy that wraps the world once, twice, a thousand times. It’s not like there isn’t complexity and depth and intricacy in the universal human experience.
It’s not like my world isn’t turning upside down, but the rabbit hole has so many wonders that didn’t exist right outside it. Everything is topsy turvy, but that’s okay. I’m just not who I was when i woke up this morning, but I’m not sure what has changed at all.
It’s not as if I’m not blown away by the world and everything in it.
So why do I find it so hard to write anything these days?