a lot to say about having nothing to say

i've got nothin'... sort of.

DW as a forever mood, sourced from Pinterest.

I sit here at my desk, half-peeled clementine in hand, the sun finally shining through the blinds behind me– winter’s tight grip loosening at last–  and I stare at the blinking cursor in front of me.

Blink, blink, blink.

Nothing comes to mind.

This has been a rinse and repeat cycle for the past month or so.

Sometimes it's a Ziploc baggie of half-stale granola, a bone-chilling wind rattling the bare branches outside.

Blink, blink, blink.

Sometimes it’s a Tupperware container of freshly washed strawberries and tepid rain smacking the window panes.

Blink, blink, blink. 

I’ve got nothing. 

I go through these phases every so often. A hibernation, or rather incubation, of sorts where half-formed thoughts and glimmers of words and infant ideas swirl in my head– circling, circling, circling– never quite finding the drain, never quite ready to be spoken aloud or poured out onto the page.

Without fail, I begin to question if this is it. If I’m officially dried up. If I’m finished before ever truly getting started, and my whole life ends right here.

These questions mix with the half-formed, infant glimmers until it’s all one tangled mess, like the white gold chain of the tiny cross pendant sitting discarded– temporarily given up on– in my jewelry box right now. 

So the days pass gradually, the Alabama weather swings like a pendulum and my desk breakfasts get eaten as the cursor blink, blink, blinks in front of me and I wonder if I’ll ever find it in me to fill a page once more.

Dramatic? Sure. Though seeing as I’ve never met an artist who is anything but, I might as well accept it early, eh? 

Still from Clueless, sourced from Pinterest, duh!

It’s in these periods, when the words can’t quite escape my lips, when they can’t snake their way out of my mind let alone my fingers, and I’m wrestling with the fear that they’ll evade me for *life*, that I turn inadvertently toward inspiration rather than production. 

I walk and walk and walk. In circles and squares and haphazard zigzag patterns around city blocks, looking at everything and everyone, at nothing and no-one– lost in the swirling thoughts, the budding trees, in the hands on backs and fingers intertwined that send a faint pang of lonely envy from my heart down to my stomach. 

downtown bham :))

I scroll Pinterest and create a beautiful home; ivy-covered, big windows, eclectic wallpaper, pink couches and stained glass. I create the perfect wardrobe; feathers and leopard print and denim that always slouches just right, chunky jewelry and shoes that never leave blisters; the confidence to wear it all. I plan the perfect wedding; the dress and the rings, the ceremony and the party after– both overflowing with candles and flowers– the man I’m fairly certain doesn’t exist. 

a sneaky peek at my “sweet home” Pinterest board.

I listen to music until I can’t hear another note (I’m loving this playlist by Hope Woodard) and I watch movies (I really liked this one recently and cried through this one just this week) and cook dinner (10/10 recommend squeezing in this soup during the next cold snap) and lie on my floor bored half to tears (sometimes fully to tears). 

I stare at the ceiling and try to find the words– the cursor blinks at me in my mind’s eye. I try to remember it won’t always be like this. I get angry at myself, I get angry at my stomping upstairs neighbors, I get angry at everyone else, I get angry at the sky and the heavens I’m told are above it.

I huff and I puff, I call friends and laugh for a bit, I read books (loved this one, this one’s up next & I want to read this one again soon because it’s a favorite that feels pertinent). I grumble down the Publix cereal aisle and buy myself flowers, cover all the gun magazines with gardening magazines in the pharmacy aisle. I try some more to remember it won’t always be like this.

sourced from Pinterest— you know the drill.

That the words will return.

That life will change despite its snail's pace.

That eventually I’ll open my jewelry box, untangle that white gold chain, and the tiny cross pendant will hang in the soft hollow between my collar bones once more.

That one day soon I’ll know just what to say.

And until then I’ll walk and I’ll pin and I’ll listen and I’ll be hopelessly dramatic and I’ll dream of the day it all swings back my way. 

(And I’ll probably cry a lot more.)

With all my love, melodrama & unwavering impatience,

emie g. 

art by demiiwhiffin, sourced from Pinterest.