3:35 am

So I don't know what happened. I haven't been able to write a story for a few months. I think it's the political arena that's getting to me. The forced disappearances, the rhetoric, the authoritarian regime, and my democratic world crumbling.

It's hard to believe it's all real. Is this a dream? A nightmare? A prophecy of end times come to fruition? The doomsayers were right. It's worse than I imagined it would be and happening way quicker. It may be too late at this point to save democracy in the USA and in the world. Everyone is capitulating. The senate, the Supreme Court. And yes, we the people are standing up, but I don't know if we can stop this. 

And it's 3:35 am. I want to write. To lose myself in a story. But I can't. The words won't come. Fingers to keys, I wonder in my head if I should write my fears. Write my reality. But in these times, to capture my nonfiction, I might have to start writing a dystopian novel (yet perhaps, it's not dystopian any longer).

Maybe I don't know who I am any longer, and it's been too easy for too long to drown my sorrows away. I need to try to recall who I am. I am a writer. At my core. Remember that. I tell myself. Remember.