she found herself plunged into a morass, the intensity of which she had not experienced in some time. it attached itself to her slowly, insidiously, until this morning, when it emerged in full bloom.

she had not experienced any creative surges in a while, did not know the cause, and wrote it off, while, of course, not writing. she went on with her days, thinking that she would somehow return to whatever her normal was.

she did not.

the morning was cold and the heat in her apartment was faintly sputtering, more noise than calorie output. she bundled herself up in a second bathrobe, sat up in bed, looked around.

the room had a warm, cozy familiarity. she felt safe, as safe as she was capable of feeling, which was not really much. her breathing was labored, her chest sore from the effort.

she could not formulate a cry, but cry she wanted to do. if just to alleviate the tension, bring whatever inside, out. her eyes were stinging with tears that would not come, simmering, taunting.

she started to sort through the issues that caused her to become so clogged. none were particularly momentous in nature. it was the minutiae that always placed her under maximum duress.