I remember when the ideas used to just... bubble up. Like a spring, you know? Always something new, pushing its way out. I’d see a faded sign on the side of a building, or hear a snatch of conversation at the grocery, and suddenly, my mind would just start to build. Colors, fonts, layouts – it was like a little engine in there, always running. I used to joke about it with my husband, bless his heart. “My brain’s got a mind of its own,” I’d say, and he’d just nod and smile. He didn't really GET it, I don't think, but he was always supportive in his way. Said I had a real knack. Now... it’s different. It’s been different for a good long while, I guess. It started subtle, like a little crack in a teacup, barely visible. I’d sit down at the computer, ready to tackle a new project, and the screen would just… stare back. Blank. Empty. For hours sometimes. My fingers would hover over the mouse, over the keyboard, but nothing would move. It wasn’t a lack of trying, not really. It was more like... the well just went dry. The spring stopped flowing. Or maybe it’s still flowing, but it’s just underground now, too deep for me to reach. My friends, they still think I’m just LOVING it. “Oh, you’re so CREATIVE, Martha!” they’ll say, their voices bright and full of admiration. And I’ll smile, a little brittle around the edges, and say something about the “hustle” and how I just thrive on it. It’s what they expect, I suppose. It’s the story I’ve been telling for years. The plucky freelance designer, always busy, always creating. It’s a good story. A comfortable one. Much more comfortable than saying, “Actually, I feel like a fraud, and every new client brief feels like a punishment.” The worst part is the guilt, I think. That’s the real WEIGHT of it all. I’ve always been good with my hands, good at making things. My mother, she used to knit intricate lace patterns, always had something going on. And my father, he could fix anything. We didn’t have much, you see, so you learned to be resourceful. Learned to make do. To make things yourself. This design work, it was supposed to be my thing. My way of being useful, of contributing. Of not being a burden. And it was, for so long. It paid the bills, kept a roof over our heads. It was a good, HONEST living. Now, when I stare at that blank screen, the clock ticking, I feel this… this dull ache behind my eyes. It’s not a headache, not exactly. More like a pressure. A sense of something… MISSING. Like a part of me has just detached, floated off somewhere, and I can’t quite grasp it anymore. I used to be able to feel the texture of a color, the rhythm of a layout. Now it’s just… flat. Lifeless. Like looking at a picture of a meal instead of tasting it. Sometimes, late at night, when the house is quiet and my husband is snoring softly in the next room, I’ll pull out an old sketchpad. Just to see if anything sparks. I’ll draw a leaf, maybe a simple pattern. And for a fleeting moment, I’ll feel a little flicker. A tiny, almost imperceptible warmth. And then it's gone again, like a match struck in the wind. Just a memory of a feeling, you know? I push through, of course. I have to. The bills don't stop just because my inspiration dried up. I copy things sometimes, not outright, but I borrow heavily. Reinterpret. Re-imagine. It’s a skill, I suppose, to be able to mimic what you can no longer create. A sort of… compensatory mechanism, maybe. A way to keep the plates spinning, even when the chef has forgotten how to cook. I worry about it, about what happens when I can’t even do that anymore. When the mimicry wears thin, and all that’s left is the blank screen and the empty well. I don’t know what I’d do. This is all I’ve ever really known, this sort of practical artistry. My whole identity, almost. It’s a strange thing, to lose the very thing that made you… you. Without even really noticing it leaving. Just a slow, quiet fade, like an old photograph left too long in the sun.