I didn’t stop writing when Sam died, but it became incredibly hard to imagine and create. For a long while, I felt like all I could do were the basic, practical things that life demanded. Then, I turned to friends more and more. Ironically, I turned to friends because a friend was creating more holes in my emotional walks than he was filling. Then came you. I start too feel more like who I should be every day. I start to create, even if I still have a hard time imagining. I don’t know if my muse will ever want to imagine things again. Sometimes I feel so far from imagining that I can’t even get myself to miss it. It feels foreign to me now. Like I’ve been on a mission in a foreign county so long, I forgot what it was like in my homeland, even my native language. I want to write stories again, but I have doubts my mind will ever take me back to my lands of make believe.
I wish I had a jedi master to teach me over again how to be more like who I was. Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.
Could it be possible that three years and a new marriage later, I am still grieving?
I guess so.