Wednesday Blues

As a teenager I used to be obsessed with finding my purpose in life. Fulfilling some grand destiny. It brought me a lot of pain, but also gave me hope that there was more out there…a perfect design. It’s been years since I’ve thought about anything like that…and yet today I feel it. The ache of being incomplete.

For some reason these feelings manifest as a desire to write, and not just poetry. I feel like I should be creating my own worlds, my own characters…and yet I have no idea what that would look like, be like. I have oodles of inspiration but no clear vision, no plan. Sometimes I feel like my life is so small I wouldn’t be able to draw anything out of it, even with my big imagination.

Does anyone else feel like this? A writer without a story…but more than that. A woman without a crux…