Lately, I haven't felt any inclination or motivation to do any work or even pick up the scissors or paintbrush. I don't seem to have the passion for it anymore, which I hope is just a passing mood. I've attempted to try and get back into creating but even the effort is dispiriting. It's been about 6 months. I feel like a recovering addict or something, monitoring the timeframe or lack of timeframe for me to get my act together and start being productive again.
Meanwhile, I've been addicted to the written word and have exhausted all the reserves on my library card. I have been trying to convince Ben to sign up so that I can use his card as well. I've always loved reading ever since I was little. The right book can make sense of everything and for just a minute the world makes sense again, in the same way that a beautiful piece of music will transcend language and provide an all too brief glimpse of some other worldly beauty.
This post is proving quite the comtemplative post but it's rather hard with the sunlight streaming in, the violin and cello playing in all seriousness, and the luxury of time to not be taken in by the reflective mood and put it down in words.