I’d given up. No amount of willpower was enough. Every time I sat down at the computer I got up again soon after, the empty Word document a shameful testament to my lack of focus. Some days I didn’t make it to my desk. It felt as if my thoughts were written down on Post-it Notes, hundreds of Post-it Notes that were swirling around in a giant wind tunnel. I was in the wind tunnel too, frantically grabbing at each slip of paper.
I was supposed to be a writer. But I was a writer who didn’t write. Instead I lay in bed, paralysed with ennui and despair.
I kidded myself that this mental shutdown was a result of lockdown. It was November 2020 and
