"The Zone."

I wonder exactly when I became my own worst enemy. Did it happen suddenly, or was it gradually, little wears and tears over time and space?

One minute I knew what I was doing. I was writing--all the time. Hours would pass as I sat at my computer, unaware of what was going on around me. Sometimes you hear writers talk about “the zone” or something to that effect, where they claim they are just vessels for the muse, simply typing what they are instructed to type.

I know that place. I used to go there a lot. It was my escape, my saving grace. Bored in economics class? No problem. I’d just pick up my pen and quit paying attention. Zoning out for me was a spiritual experience in a way. Hours would pass, and while I might get up and do other things at points--things my body demanded like eating lunch or drinking water or using the restroom, my mind was still in “the zone.” I was locked into the experience, swept away by the thrill and the sweet sensation of being connected to something that was clearly bigger than me; bigger even than my comprehension of it.

These days I can hardly remember what it was like. When I was younger, it came easily and I let it. Anymore, getting to “the zone” or any place remotely resembling it is a struggle. I struggle inwardly, mentally dodging demands of dreary every day tasks like laundry, and dishes, and cleaning, and rarely succeeding to actually sit down in a chair by myself, with no distractions from the outside world and attempt to connect to that place.

Even now, I am distracted. My inner editor is telling me that what I’m writing is terrible, that there are better, more productive ways to spend my time: there are things to be organized, dinner to be eaten, a movie to be watched with my family. Not to mention that I obviously need to check my Facebook, my Twitter feet, Tumblr, and return texts and phone calls to people.

I am not in “the zone.”

But I’m determined to figure out a way to get back there one day soon, because my soul demands it.