Not sure how long I thought I could actually keep up writing something here every night, but it lasted a little over two weeks. It appears as though the IBS that rules my intestines also affects my writing discipline, too. Depending on the trigger, I struggle to contend with either constipation or diarrhea – both of which can be incredibly painful and attack like a silent ninja.

Finding the right balance of stool softener or imodium for the creative talents is just as frustrating. Opening up a portal to self-publish to the world (whether or not anyone actually reads it) jump started my activity to writing almost anything. But one long day working in the realm that exists outside this digital world stopped almost all ability to push forth any new thoughts.

It seems that I have more evidence to backup my belief that I will continue to recreate patterns in my life to heal.  Who could have guessed that a fourth degree laceration during child birth and subsequent issues would parallel so well with the deeper parts of my creative struggle?

I don’t want this to become just a daily journal. Not that my daily existence isn’t worthy of writing about, I get bored with constant thoughts of ME after a while.

Time for a break. Time to rethink. Time to find subjects multifaceted to enlighten my presence.

Time to go back to my roots through living in today.