6.04.2008

there has been no excuse for me, for why i don't write. it is fear, procrastination, paralysis. and maybe it isn't bursting out of me with the weight of my experience that makes it easy or easier. or maybe i let it flood out at all times, my mouth running constantly away with what my hand could be writing. maybe there are connections i could be drawing between things that don't seem obvious right now. maybe i'm just waiting for the words to be obvious and easy, rather than work. my mind wanders, longs to make no sense of anything, longs to talk, think on small, simple things, not analyse and self-reflect in constant mind-motion, the neurons echoing forth and back, folding inwards and over, the unrelated topics of interest intersecting and making sense or, at the very least, beauty, out of what seemed like not much.

to be me is, at times, disheartening, though i suppose so is being anyone. i want and i want and i want and nothing ever seems adequate. my brain does not operate as efficiently as i'd like. my words do not come smoothly. the thoughts do not flow. i am distracted by my surroundings and by longing. longing for stupid things like writing lists, drinking coffee, sitting still, typing on the internet during the thunderstorm, the last few pages of a book to read, a hot shower, or breakfast. and at the same time, the longings disguise or coincide with guilt and obligation - the need to do things with my children who are stuck dumb in front of cartoons, the need to wash off my night sweat, change into new clothes, the need to fill my belly, the need to buy new underwear and pens. my brain distracts itself from its desire to read, write, and think with the necessity of letting not the laundry mildew in the washer, of drying out the boots, of emptying the sink, soaking up the leaking roof, eliminating the extreme humidity, remembering to call the wholesaler, retrieving the refund from the museum, do all the things that must be done for myself and my children and my family and my reputation as non-lazy, hard-working, et cetera. instead i stew, waste seconds, watch them float by unseen, watch the spider in the window, think on nothing.

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