sol.ace_r

From a certain moment on, the things that once came naturally began to fall slightly out of place.

Sentences no longer make it to the end, melodies stop halfway through, and even when I change the words, the lyrics remain where they are.

The methods my hands once knew so well are still the same, yet the one using them now feels unfamiliar.

I am clearly sitting in the same place, working in the same way, and yet the result is different.

Things that I used to be able to do with just a little focus now feel difficult even to begin.

It feels close enough to touch, but the moment I reach out, it blurs before my fingers can meet it.

So I return to the same part again and again, reworking it.

I cannot tell whether I am blocked, or whether it is simply flowing in another direction.

It feels as if I have stopped, and yet as if I am still moving.

Even on days when no clear thought comes to mind, it does not feel completely empty.

Something keeps surfacing in a blurred form, yet I cannot tell what it is.

So these days, I no longer try to force something into completion.

I write until I stop, create until I erase, and then return once more.

Even if it feels as though nothing remains, I know this time is not becoming meaningless.

Perhaps this is not a season where nothing can be made well, but a process of changing from an old way into a new one.

Maybe that is why it is taking a little longer.