Who Does Writing Anymore?

I find myself saying often that I need to write more. I used to write all the time, out of habit. Sentences, paragraphs, whole stories that could be massive arcs in and of themselves. But since returned from Afghanistan last year, it's like the desire to write has been stricken from me. I still love the endeavor of doing it, of creating and forming, of each thought transcribed into action and prose, but I can't seem to do it anymore. Much as I make the attempt to write, it's like the words that would normally have flowed from my mind to my fingers to the keyboard to the text editor have been replaced by nothingness. Ideas that were once like the fruit in a bountiful field has become fallow, empty. A feeling that someone has salted the earth of my mind weighs heavily on me.

What to do. What to write? No idea, no clue, and no desire. So where's the jumping point? Do I force it like the lid on a jar to get at the contents within, or do I grease the wheels and hope the shrieking stops? Those that do not seek never find -- so maybe it's time to seek out my muse, wherever it could be.