I keep insisting that I’m stuck, that my creative feet are wedged in the mud of sadness and anxiety, and yet I keep going. I wiggle my toes against the muck and pull my heels up and will myself forward. Some days, I advance by an inch, maybe two. Other days the mud wraps itself around my ankles, cold and sticky, and holds me there.
It’s not quicksand. I won’t be consumed by it. But the stuckness, it oppresses, it constrains, it hinders breathing, and so it feels, sometimes, like a sort of quicksand, like a deep pit that threatens to pull me under. So I keep moving, to remind myself that this is not quicksand, that this will not pull me under, that movement is good, that movement will get me out.
So I keep moving, because all I can do is keep moving, keep resisting, keep going forward, word by word (by word by word by word), and hope that I find my way out.