I know. We're all tired of hearing it. Covid. In fact, we're tired of hearing that we're all tired of hearing about it. The expressing of creative exhaustion thuds in the hollow damp air of our global creative suffocation. Defeat. Unrest. Too parched to absorb water from the thick mist that surrounds us.
I've been dying to create and finding nothing. Desperate to fan my own fire with a spark from others' excellence, but sparks are hard to come by and kindling is still too wet.
So I'm numbing myself out by being busy. I learned the word busyholic this summer; it describes me perfectly. I will have nothing in my calendar and still have barely enough room to breathe.
I pray your forest is dryer than mine.