The reality of a hiatus is hovering within a tranquil bubble of contemplation.
Since last month, I have ceased writing for one of the longest times. Prior, my mentorship through a Room Magazine was coming to an end. The final whizz of energy died out a little after the final revision of the essay. Much like when a fully lit room is suddenly flooded into darkness, this change took a while for my eyes to adjust, for my brain to comprehend.
At first I fought it. I kept trying to create. Feverishly scribbling odds and ends into my notebook, stepped back into a time machine, assessed my life from birth to present. Tried to glean certain events, certain experiences that were publication worthy into my juicy inventory.
But it didn't work.
The harder I fought, the more futile my efforts were. Understanding output doesn't last forever, rest is needed for regeneration, I was aware of. But had dismissed based on the action I've taken. Something you love doing then turns into nausea whenever you think of it.
So now I learn to release. Release the pressures of creating, release the desire to publish. Sail on a different wavelength, and just let it be. Because when it comes, it'll come.