When Creative Expression Collides with Turmoil….

There are days, sometimes weeks, sometimes months, when the act of writing feels impossible. The pen hovers, the keyboard waits, but the words refuse to gather. Instead, they scatter like autumn leaves in the wind, lost to the overwhelming chaos outside. For writers and creatives, this paralysis is not just a failure of technique or discipline; it is the echo of a world out of joint, a reflection of emotional upheaval that drowns out thought and silences the voice within. I am here…teetering on the edge.

The outside world is relentless in its noise. News headlines blare, social feeds churn with anger, and distant sirens become a constant undertone. The line between personal space and global turbulence grows thin, and what was once a sanctuary for creativity becomes permeated by unrest. This storm does not merely rattle windows, it invades the mind, clouding the ability to find stillness and clarity.

In these moments, words tumble about, sometimes in torrents, sometimes in fragmented syllables, and lose their shape, their meaning, before they reach the page. Thoughts begin with promise but dissolve into static, sentences fragment, and nothing fits together. It is as if the language itself has become infected by chaos, unmoored from meaning. The sensation is both physical and mental. There feels to be a knot in the chest, a tightening in the throat, and the persistent feeling that the act of writing has become a futile excavation in dying world. The story I set out to tell slips away, the poem erases itself with each line… The worlds fade away, vanishing into an abyss as I stand on its edge.

Underneath this struggle lies the awareness that life itself has shifted, irrevocably. What was once stable now feels precarious, routines and rituals falter under new uncertainties. The familiar patterns of creativity, coffee in hand, music playing, a quiet morning is still there but the words now seem out of reach, replaced by a sense of quiet chaos in my mind. It is as if I now must struggle to gather the words that once flowed so easily from my mind to my fingertips. The world’s chaos is not just external, it has become internal, an earthquake that disrupts the foundation of self, leaving me grasping for something solid in the rubble.

Perhaps most unsettling is the reappearance of shadows long believed banished. Old fears and anxieties, once quieted by time or hard-won growth, resurface in the wake of turmoil. The troubles of yesterday are burrowing up and finding new life creating disorder, reminding me and us all that progress is fragile, and old wounds never fully heal. I have seen the rise of racism, hate, and a vile evil that threatens the harmony and inclusion that was once more prevalent. This resurgence is haunting, a reminder that the past is never as distant as we hope, especially when the present is so uncertain. In the thick of creative paralysis, it is tempting to surrender to disarray, to believe that meaning is lost and the words will never return. Yet, even as chaos reigns, there is a quiet perseverance, a willingness to sit with discomfort, to wait for the storm to pass, and to trust that language will find its way back. In these moments of struggle, perhaps hope is not an answer but an act: the act of showing up at the page, of believing that the silence inside is temporary, and that amid disorder, the voice within will eventually rise again.

I write today about the struggle within, to share to say it out loud, to make it real and give it notice. Notice that I will not quit, that my words are not vanishing but being taken, and can be taken back. That my mind, my imagination is MINE, it will not be silenced. I have been at the edge before, grief, heartbreak, and pain, they have all worked their way through my mind, my heart, and my soul. The words are my gift, they are what compel me to move, to heal, to share and to find joy in the world. I will not go quietly into the darkness and over the edge…