I had that feeling again yesterday. And today. As it happens the feeling is quite persistent when it wakes from it's slumber to wrap its slimy tendrils around the recesses of my brain.
I've tried to find a word for it, but none exists. It's a feeling of abject apathy and complete hopelessness. It stretches far beyond the confines of controllable traits such as procrastination and laziness and morphs into its own little downwards spiral of absolute inescapable horror. It's truly quite frightening.
My creations, and by extension my physical writings, are my quote unquote "happy place," a location my mind can retreat to when life itself becomes that bit too tedious and wearing. Thinking about these creations never fails to make me feel more positive and is a guaranteed antidote to that everyday drudgery. However, during these occasions of the "unnamed feeling" I find that the opposite is true. My creations turn on me and become nothing more than a sigil of failure.
What happens when you take away someone's hope? Their sense of progression towards personal growth, their planned future? Well I imagine it feels quite a bit like this. It's horrible, quite frankly.
Why do I write about it here? Perhaps focussing on writing about it makes it easier to deal with. Perhaps everything I write is fiction and in some way this exercise will render my little situation inert? Perhaps when you keep your mind open to various creative possibilities there's a chance that something nasty and unwanted will creep inside.
There is but one antidote: to rekindle positivity and that sense of progression.
Wish me luck,