I've been overthinking it, I think. My mind and my writing have felt like either a cluttered mess or an echoing void this past year - sometimes both, sometimes simultaneously, sometimes neither because why not.
Honestly, this is hard. It's been so long since I wrote, or even had the desire to write, that my fingers feel stiff and foreign on the keyboard. The mind like mush. I've written other things during these past five months of course - reports and articles and summaries and comments - but that urge, that trickle of thoughts needling to be expressed has shone in its absence.
As I sit on my bed i Fort McMurray, wrapped in a Ravenclaw robe that was a Christmas present from my husband, writing consciously for the first time in a couple of months, I find that words have taken on a new form. They feel different, almost foreign.
I'm sitting in a booth at the airport right now and the world outside is a void of white mist. I can count a couple of trees in the distance, a few airport thingamajigs, the bright spots of the lamps that line the restaurant reflected in the windows. My insides mirror the mist, I'm filled with too much - making individual things hard to decipher. My insides are a void. Within that void, time is an illusion.