Mental: There is no mental stimulation going on over here. Nothing. Blah. I'm beginning to worry that was few brain cells I possessed are going to atrophy beyond repair. I need intelligent conversation. But I'm never online. I crave talking to people about something not involving artwork (because apparently, since I do Makenzie's Locker and have multiple galleries online, that and that alone composes my soul and my personality. Well guess what. They seem to have gone. Hah. I have no soul, then. What have you to say to that? That's what I thought). But I don't know anything beyond artwork. So I have nothing to say. And the inane little four-line conversations consisting of "hi, how are you, no update? I see, sorry about that, okay, bye" make me want to rip out my modem line. So while I actually would not mind some form of communication, I still loathe the majority of people. And I sleep a lot lately. Sick or something. So no talkee for Jenni.
Emotional: Same as always. Worried. There's always an underlying tone of worry in my mind. I worry about everything and everyone; even and especially when I know damn well I can do nothing to help. And right now, I am scared. My creative drive has never disappeared so entirely before, and I am terrified that I will never regain it.
Artistic: It's not so much that the impulse to create and the desire to draw is gone as it is that I simply cannot reach it. I see my sketchbook (I had to get a new one, I ran out of pages in the last just before this hit) lying empty, I see my tablet - though that computer is currently inaccessible - and I see things that are so familiar and yet so foreign to me now. I pick up a pencil and it's as though I don't know what to do with it. I want to put the image in my head on the paper and it's not working. I've tried surrounding myself with the things that used to inspire me - visited so many artist's sites (many I can recall from memory despite long and convoluted URLs), so many clothing sites... nothing. I've tried just ignoring it and 'letting it happen' when it will. I didn't draw. And while I felt uncomfortable and out of place because I knew something very large was missing and things were not as they should be, I did not miss it. That worried me more than the lack of drawing. I didn't even miss it. I don't miss my soul. I don't.
But I do because this is not right; this is not what I am accustomed to being.
People used to ask me: "How can you go around with all those stories and all those characters in your head?"
I responded: "How can you not?"
Well, now I know.