Creativity

Creativity no longer flows freely through me. I used to be a vessel, a messenger of it, and I can bring myself to only ask this:
Why has it abandoned me?
Is it because I have become a social butterfly, no longer cooped in my room, waiting for it's call, like the needy one in the relationship?
Is it because I claimed to have no fear of it leaving me?
Well, news flash, now that it has left me, I am very afraid.
I felt the need to fill myself with something else, something tangible, something substantial, but creativity, like God, is jealous.
There shall be no other love than for me; it's no wonder most writers are alone. But I refuse to be like Virginia Woolf, piling rocks in my cardigan and stepping into a lake.
I want to say that "If creativity wants nothing else to do with me, then so be it." But I can't because I am nothing without it. It completes me in a way that no man ever could. I would simply be an empty shell, blindly walking into walls.