Life is just so daily.
I woke up this morning, heart racing, cold shivers running down my spine, full of the absolute certainly that I'd forgotten something, something so vital the neglect of it would have consequences dear and dire. The usual getting-myself-together phase I have during breakfast was overwhelmed by the desperate attempt to capture what was missing, what subconscious spark had put me on edge.
It took four solid pages of writing in my diary (okay, there were a couple of coffees involved, too) for me to realise the sad truth - I haven't written anything in weeks. The corner of my brain Mr Muse calls his own has been gathering cobwebs, turning into a veritable haunted house of emaciated, whispy ideas hiding behind corners and under dusty rugs, ready to pounce on any thoughts that might wander their way.
What I call "real life" (parenthesis because how real can it be if I'm not writing, huh?) has gripped me firmly, pulled me down into the mire. I'm stuck there, in that daily trott of too much to do, too little time, too little sleep, too little everything but work and worries.
Like Mr Sattler said: Life is just so daily. One too early morning follows the next, one stack of papers gets replaced by another, one task done and another one due (mostly due yesterday). Barely time to breathe, never mind make an appointment with Mr Muse and actually WRITE something.
All this dailyness leaves me with a strangely profound feeling of loss, an ache at the very centre of my chest as if my heart is about to burst. What I need is time to let my thoughts run wild, let them play, let my imagination build things out of all those words slipping through my mind day in, day out.
What I need is a writing holiday.