I keep getting caught up

Once upon a time, I used to write incessantly. Take ten years off my life, and you'd have found me banging away at my second attempt at a novel. Then there were the short stories, and the nonfiction. Lately, I've been trying to write something again, I've let it lapse for so long. But every time I try to think of what I should write about, I get stuck, I get caught up in thoughts that bring me crashing down to earth, hard.

Who am I to try and talk about the truths of life? What have I to say? I know more, have been more, have felt more, than I did ten years ago, but can I say more? I can say less, in fact. I am more in doubt about life than ever. Not only do I get the "who am I to" questions running through my head, but the "who am I" question.

I suppose all of us are seeking a place we belong.

Last night, I got caught up in the instinctual desire to run. Yet life is not unpleasant here.

If I can't write, who am I?