The way things are

I suffer(ed) from moderate clinical depression for several years. Recently I've been well. Good. Happy. Content. I'm aware of my manxome foe (thank you very much, CS Lewis), and I know that he follows me wherever I go (there's a nursery rhyme in there, I can tell). Most days I wake up and nod my head to the beast that stalks me. He leaves me alone if I acknowledge his presence.

And so far, I have been free of the great sadness that has been a long-time companion. I have felt, on more days than not, content. And on that full stop rests my everything.

Seems like a bit of mental instability can do an awful lot for one's creative self. When I was depressed I could write. I could play piano. I could paint. I could draw. I could sew and create and design.

But my creativity has dwindled since my depression became manageable. I have had little inspiration. I stopped blogging for a long time. When I sit down with a canvas before me, I find myself staring. And staring. And the magic just never comes.

I open up my blog post, and I have nothing to say.

My happiness is frustrating, as odd as that sounds. I feel I am unable to tap the well within me. The one that holds the enchantment of my very essence. The one that can unlock me.

If you're interested in some of the things I've spent time on, check out my special blog.