Coming back to writing after a long time, I find that my mind is much more scattered, much more thoughtless than the state in which I had left it. The break was not really a break - it was a mild shattering of the writing mind, which has morphed, at least superficially into a lazy, distracted, and jumbled mess - a regular mind to put it bluntly.
Every break from writing has a similar effect - the last one dissolved my hard-earned discipline of the previous few months, with a lethal infusion of nicotine, alcohol and joyful leisure. When I came back home, I no longer felt a drive to write (a drive which I had cultivated by ignoring my lack of drive). But after having so much fun, it didnt seem that important anymore to ignore my feelings.
It is not permanent thankfully, as evinced by this thing that I am writing - eventually, the obsessive, compulsive writing mind whispers and knocks at my insides (but it does it slyly and destructively showing itself as anxiety and restlessness. Why can't it just make itself obvious? It wouldn't be the writing mind then would it?) and eventually my legs take me to my desk and my fingers begin to tap away.
It never gets easier, even though I know the logistics of these conflicting creatures within me - the happy creature and the writer creature. I know the signs that one is showing itself, I know the tricks that the other employs to make me obey its desires - yet I am helpless to their rise and fall. And I am ok with it to a certain extent - as always, it is a balance I need to find and not an absolute solution.
And so here I am writing again, happy that I've come back to it, mad that I've taken such a long break, tortured, anxious, satisfied, relaxed, and ready to write, write, write, until the next break, and after that where this whole tragic, triumphant drama will play itself out once again. And again and again till the I am cold and dead.