"Absence of Desire" or "My Brain is a Bog of Thoughts UnThunk"

Do you know what I miss?
Flow.
I miss being a river of thought and feeling.

Rather, I have been hedged up my some dam thing that keeps me from rushing on in my loudly musical, dangerously beautiful flow.

Stagnation does not suit me.

I do not desire to be a sitting mass of unexpressed potential that after time becomes a death bog, stinking of despair and regret. I squirm listlessly in the bonds of that dam thing which for months has held my ability to share captive.

And it is not enough.

I have wondered over the past months, wondered what caused me to feel that increasingly heavy apathy. I didn't even realize it was apathy. I didn't know what apathy was. All I knew was that I increasingly felt the painless void of nothing. Sure, there were bursts of feeling, like death lights hanging over the bog giving a false glimmer of hope to onlookers. But I was boggy.

There were those who looked for a scapegoat for my behavior, whether it be here or beyond the veil. I don't know that I know the answer. I can't offer written consolidation for my greatly altered personality over the last few months. I have an event where it seemed to begin, and an event where it seemed to end . . . but they are not connected. Much like my thought.s

There has been no flow. No liquid rushing from point A to point B merely for the joy of feeling the movement.

The largest difference in myself was that I had no desire. The goals I had been working toward slowly meant nothing to me. The hobbies I loved . . . meh. I became little more than a stranger - a detatched onlooker who actually looked past me and not on me.

Gratefuly, the people I loved were so ingrained in my system that not even this downward spin on my cycle could have knocked them completely loose. I still loved them. I still worked at maintaining my relationships with them . . . because although I didn't feel a desire to do those things I knew they would appreciate, I knew that "This too shall pass" and I mustn't cause damage I could not repair.

My housekeeping suffered. I cooked a few good meals, but they were often by accident and I didn't really care. I gave my children over to the care of cartoons and Spanish-speaking explorers with their pet monkeys.

The good news is that I sense my bonds being loosened. They are not gone. I still feel numbingly separated from desire.

And yet: I have written today. I have written today as I have not written in months: yielding almost entirely to the creative flow I feel within.

I cried yesterday as I have not cried in months: under the gentle duress of the Holy Spirit, moved with compassion and understanding.

If I were ill, I am not completely healed. If I were a reservoir of creativity and ability and wonder, I am still hedged in by some dam thing. The worst part is that although I know something is not quite right within me, I don't have enough desire to discover it, let alone destroy it. Even if it meant being "back to my old self." I find it incredibly difficult to care.

So instead of using up my energy on worrying that I don't care enough to worry (try wrapping your brain around THAT conundrum), I will marvel in this little babble that made it's way past the dam somehow, and managed to flow a short distance.