I have found the path once more.
There was a time when it diverged away from me,
I let myself be swept away from the true calling.
I am writing plays again. I am writing again. For a while there I was gripped with an all consuming writer's block and I couldn't write word. The floodgates have opened and I am once again gripped by my muse. I want to write everything and anything. I feel all powerful in my prose once again. My art is breathing and screaming inside of me. It is an amazing feeling to have.
There is a sense of loss when you as a writer, as an artist, are in the deathly clutches of writer's block. There are phantom pains in your hands and fingers, those appendages that help us express the very thoughts locked in our heads and souls. Your head hurts as if your brain is in a vice that is constantly being tightened. As long as you are under the evil spell, you forgot who you truly are.
I am a writer. I write. It is something I need to do. It is as essential to me as oxygen or water. If I could never write again I would shrivel and wither like a dried grape on the vine passed over by the vintner.
Back to work I go...my play is calling me to finish. After that I will treat myself to sleep.
I love being an artist.