Where did the joy go? Who stole the passion? Was it in the middle of night while I slept, or while I stared in the distance and tried to be moved by the moon? Did it happen when the temperatures fell lower, shutting us all in doors to watch the ground cover with snow and ice? Or was it before that, in Florida, when the rain came and helped beat the thermometer down below 60, then below 50, and on until one's breath filled the air and made viewing the magnificent sky sting the eyes? Was I at work when it happened, perhaps when some students tuned out a chapter and I was the only one left finding anything worth talking about?
Did I finish a book and fail to reach for another just as stimulating? Has the television remote conspired with something else to take control of my attention for mindless hours? Has the lack of an adequate social life finally caught up with me? When the well ran dry and the muse left, is that when the malaise set in? Or did the muse leave afterward, jettisoning my subconscious when everything else turned gray?
If I currently find a book interesting and am involved in the story, why do I refrain of opening the pages whenever I stare at the cover, instead spurning the author's words to lose myself in a game of computer 500 rummy?
What do other people do to keep themselves active, keep themselves healthy by growing intellectually? What do other people do to ensure they are not remaining stagnant and instead are constantly opening themselves to new experiences, new cultures, new learning?
Where did the passion, the enthusiasm, the joy go? And why I am asking you? If I got off my ass I may find it myself, right?
2 comments:
You are not alone in this...it is amazing to me how we can be young and in the prime of our lives and still feel so utterly lonely sometimes. I think this is the curse of a writer...someone who spends way too much time in their own psyche. Force yourself to go out and experience new things...and to meet new people. I try to tell myself the same.
You are not alone in this...it is amazing to me how we can be young and in the prime of our lives and still feel so utterly lonely sometimes. I think this is the curse of a writer..writers tend to spend way too much time in their own psyche. Everyday I tell myself that life could be brighter if I only took a step out of the door and extended my hand to the world..and what it holds. The hard part is telling yourself that you will be accepted by the world on the other side of that door.
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