the crone

Sinking.

That’s what I’ve been doing.

Not writing.

Not running.

Not working.

Not looking after myself.

I’ve had long blank months where I could have written that novel/children’s story/poetry/comedy script/blog.

And yet I do nothing.

Except sink.

The more I feel I *should* do something constructive, the more useless I feel.

I’m drowning.

I might thrash and splutter a bit, but not so much you’d notice.

My head barely struggles through another meaninglessly fluid day.

And when people tell me (when I tell me) I *should* be making the most of this, this most precious time, it’s like taking in another lungful of water.

I’ve hit an iceberg.

I’m holed.

I’m drifting, sinking.

I am going down into darkness.

All hands on deck.

Waiting for a lifeboat.

.