The Writer's Block

I miss the me that could write endlessly.

Where did she go?

I know she went and lived her life. I know that life hit her hard in the last three years.. and that little by little, the wheels came off. She had to stop writing, and go spend time living. I know Reese went away on her Vision Quest.. and found love, lost love, re-educated herself, strengthened her body, was betrayed, healed, became broken again, resolved longstanding issues, faced new health challenges, learned detachment, and most of all.. grew up.

But the newly matured Reese can't seem to write.

I mourn her tonight. But I'm happy for the rest of it. I now have hope and contentment. I guess I just miss the tortured artist on some level. It was quite beautiful at times.

As "Let Go" by Frou Frou goes: "...there's beauty in the breakdown."

Now my writing seems like rehashed sit-com episodes. Hysterical, but with such detachment. Where's the soul? Am I really a writer, if everything I write comes from pain?