I haven't written a lot lately, that's because you can't force the written word. I write when I do, because it's all I can do; I get an itch, a desperate need to get out something, anything. Words become sentences, they dance into formation and I have to make a choice between allowing them to float into the abyss or trying lasso them into their physical form, into words on a screen. And the words haven't come to me much, I haven't had anything more than fleeting thoughts, that are too delicate or flighty to make into anything real. I realise this is an extremely pretentious thing to say, but I'm not going to apologise because I AM pretentious and you should know that by now.
I'm living in a sterile bubble right now and it's fine. It's too sterile for many thoughts or excitement (apart from when I got drunk and didn't take my meds and had a manic few days), but it'll pop soon enough. It's protection right now, though; it's formed of animal- physical and intellectual- hunger, of thoughts that die of exhaustion before they've even begun to be properly conceived. But I'll pop it and ride the tsunami, soon enough. I'm about ready to live again.