Stuck

I feel like shutting down this blog and running away. Every single day that I don’t write anything here weighs heavily on me.
I visited a private Chinese room that felt straight out of a Hollywood mafia movie. The host narrated stories so colorfully that he deserves to be on film but I have nothing to say.
I went to a derby. I went for the experience, the joy, the rushing power of so many hoof beats and the roar of the crowd. I felt nothing.
My friends are getting engaged, married, having babies. I go through the motions of joy, support, encouragement, involvement. I can no longer make a distinction between feeling it and knowing it.
I bought new curtains for my room – bright, cheerful pink and pale green stripes. They do nothing to the room, good or bad.
I met an old friend twice in the same week and found I had nothing to say the second time round.
My days are filled. I go from work to friends to books to events and think I am doing well. I am content. Except when I think about the empty pages of my blog and know that really all is not well. I am empty too.
Writer’s existential angst is a trite bitch.