New Job, New Man, New Home

I’ve been very productive since I left this blog to rot last summer.

I started grad school. 

I got two new jobs. 

A homier place to live. 

A sweet boyfriend. 

A car.

A bigger motorcycle. 

From the outside, my life has expanded in every direction.

The only reason I even came back here to write is because I got charged over $300 on a credit card I hadn’t touched in four months — the yearly cost of keeping this website alive.

A sum of money that once felt back-breakingly expensive. An entire month’s wages when I was a Peace Corps volunteer.

The charge horrified me at first. But it also forced me to confront something I’ve been missing for a long time:

My creativity.

Since returning from Peru, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve picked up a paintbrush. And although I still write, I can’t seem to find it in me to become prolific. 

Anything creative almost makes me feel sick now--

A friend’s art show makes me feel jealous instead of inspired.

My roommate’s painting progress makes me contemplate just how long I’ve let my own canvases lean against the wall in the living room.

At a family gathering, mentions of my mother, “she was so talented,” feel like a poke at my own lack of an art career or any works to speak of. 

Last fall, I volunteered at an exhibition and left feeling strangely weak. Every attempt to reconnect with the thing that once made me feel most alive feels heavy now.

Why?

Something inside me broke.

Or maybe it didn’t break — maybe it hardened.

Because despite everything I’ve gained this past year, there’s still something missing.

Something that’s been quietly eating me alive.