little death

i can't do this anymore.

it's not because i'm in a hurry.
it's not because i'm stubborn.
it's not because i'm blocked.
it's not because i'm unwilling to put in the work.
it's not because i can't or won't re-imagine and change things.
it's not because i backpedal or flee when the going gets tough.
it's because i'm miserable.

i haven't been sleeping.
every time i eat my stomach turns sour.
i spend all my time trying not to think about it,
and when my distractions falter i break down.

this used to be my passion, my greatest accomplishment.
it was the answer to a question i didn't realize i asked.
it used to lift me up. it filled in the empty spots, made me whole.
when i thought i lost everything it gave me new focus and hope.
now it's dragging me down. tearing me open. killing me.

and i wish to god i could live without ever lifting a pen again.
i'd burn it all. tear it to pieces. shred it apart and bury it.
every last story, chapter, paragraph, sentence, word, syllable.
perhaps that was what the universe was trying to tell me
when every pen in my bag, some quite sentimental, vanished without a trace.
pack it in.
give up.
cease.
desist.
halt.
stop.
quit.