And then I wonder why I can’t write. I mean, it’s what I do. I can’t really help it. I write. And write. In all this sorting through of things, it’s just astonishing the myriad and disparate wanderings of my mind inked on to this page and that page consistently if sporadically over all the years. The pages were hidden here and there, so I stumble across them, each time a surprise. I documented so much, it’s both wonderful and awful. I write in my sleep. I wake in the middle of the night to hear myself crafting a sentence.
And then today, and yesterday, and well, yes, I guess, the day before, I actually want to write, and simply cannot. What stands between me and the words I so dearly love and hate to log?
Writing is a an act of vulnerability, but this, this is vulnerable. It’s not just the writing, it’s the doing, just living, just being.
It’s this old, too familiar chaos. It’s a way of life. I suddenly walk back into it, and I don’t know any other way to respond. I am panicked, I am unequal to it. I am ashamed. I am afraid. I am frozen, unable to make a move. I am wary. I am about to be discovered. I am waiting it out. Again. And then I feel selfish and guilty for this introspection, this hunt for a fix, that won’t seem to turn itself off. I guess that makes me both fearful and unworthy to open that gift, my gift.
But look. Even now, when I cannot write, I am writing about it.