THE DEATH OF FECUNDMELLOW
last thursday (august 12), somebody stole my bookbag. in it, among other things, was about 5 years worth of my writing. needless to say, i'm really sad and depressed about the whole thing. i know i've been grieving, because the loss is still so abstract to me that i can't really feel, or grasp the concept of this void quite yet. i know that sounds sort of crazy, but i'm a writer, and we're pretty quirky people, with interesting habits to say the least.
that said, i don't think i'll be continuing fecundmellow. i just don't feel like writing. for me, any form of writing was/is therapeutic, so blogging has been a lot of my therapy recently. i guess it didn't really matter whether anyone read it or commented or whatever, it was simply the act of writing that kept me sane. now that i've lost the written evidence of my memories, i don't think writing can serve the same purpose it once had in my life, so i don't feel like writing anymore.
if i ever get my weight back up, maybe i'll try this blog thing again.
thanks for reading, mom and anonymous.
language alone protects us from the scariness of things with no names. language alone is meditation. ~toni morrison