I know I must come off as disconnected or aloof, but my brain is so damn active that certain sensory perceptors have to shut off to compensate -- that's the conclusion I've come to anyway. Usually I don't mind. It brings a certain level of excitement and challenge to my life. More than that, though, really, it brings definition. I am a writer. That definition, that label, makes my existence make sense.
Then there are weeks like this one -- weeks where literally nothing is on my mind. It's a blank slate. At any one time, I am thinking about absolutely nothing. I soak up my surroundings. I record the goings-on around me and . . . nothing. On a normal week I might process it, store little bits here and there for future use. But this week, everything that happens, just happens. There's no rhyme or reason or anything. I can't work on anything because nothing interests me. On days like this, I can't even enjoy other entertainment. It just slides off me because it has nothing to cling onto.
I have days like this sometimes. Days where I can't claim to be a writer. And when I can't claim to be a writer, a deep, dark terrifying inkblot surges through my soul. If I'm not a writer, what am I?