Writing Through the Blues

I was reminded yesterday of one reason I write and one way I know I'm a writer.  I started the day with a serious case of the blues.  More than the blues, really.  Something darker and more insidious.  I didn't want to do anything.  I felt oppressed by the sense of failure, in my writing among other things.  I sat down in the garden and started perusing my writing notebook and some old pieces.  Before I knew it, I'd been pulled into that all-consuming mental world of imagination, time had passed and so had my dark feelings.  It was so reassuring to remember writing had that power for me, and to realize that power held true even when my writing itself is in part the source of my depression.  It reinforced in me the knowledge that I will always write, whatever external validation or publication success may or may not happen.  I write because I write.