My mind was spinning, it felt so weird to be stuck in this black, black, black. Whenever I looked at my doc, the page that was half-filled with words and a story, my mind blanked and the black crept in. It wasn't even grey anymore, it was just black, blank, empty. No words, no scenes, nothing. Just black waves drawing me with the soothing call of peace if I just allowed myself to drift into the sea of nothing were I didn't have to worry about anything. 

It felt awkward, unnatural as I was left with little to do except just, do things other than writing. It felt so unnatural and uncomfortable to go about my day without brewing up thousands of words and different conversations that would probably never happen. 

I thought that maybe I was just hitting a writer's block or that writing just reminded me of her. I still forced words onto a doc and updated every week, that much was a given, but the previous inspiration and desire had disappeared. Completely. 

I figured it would only last a few weeks and then my brain would be up and running again. A few weeks passed by and I was still struggling. Words wouldn't come fluently, everything felt awkward and forced, and worst of all?

I didn't want to write.

Not like an 'eh, I'm not feeling it right now, maybe later' not want to write, but it felt disturbing and insanely uncomfortable to actually sit in front of a computer and string words together. It didn't feel normal, it didn't feel natural, and I just felt gross afterward.

I didn't understand it, I didn't understand why writing had suddenly made me feel so differently. 

Before, it was a dull grey, just pretty bland but neutral. It didn't give me the same exciting adrenaline rush but it didn't disturb me as it does now. I could at least conjure up something if I listened to music and sat there long enough.

Now it was just black, there was no other way I could describe it. Blank, angry, disturbing, unnatural.

It was maybe three months after her and the incident before words could flow smoothly again.

And wouldn't you know it, the only thing I could bring myself to write about was her.

Her her her her her her

The bitterness and anger had settled, and I could no longer bring myself to be upset. Maybe that's what was stopping me, the only way I could process was to write and sort things out that way. Maybe I just couldn't write anything else until I could process and accept. So I wrote. 

It took three hours to write a little less than a page and I felt the same unnatural twisting in my stomach and I cringed before quickly deleting the doc and the feeling faded away.

It took three months until I could write again and I deleted it within a minute. 

.

.

.

It took another three months until I could write happily again.