Bleak

The thought of a future without her leaves me desolate. Times like this make me wish I had never met her, never heard her voice or received her gifts. I love her, when she's with me my joy knows no bounds but when she leaves, when no words come, when no ideas are to be found I''m restless and depressed. When things go bad at work I can always console myself with the fact that I'll be leaving in a few short hours, but when things go bad with my writing there is nowhere for me to go, nothing for me to do, I'm trapped in empty thought. Is this what it means to be an artist, to suffer when the creative force wanes, when the search for ideas turns up emptiness? Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it.