Some days are worse than others. Truth to the words, truth to the song in their sentences. I forgot what it was like to feel just fine just normal. I don’t even remember the last time when I didn’t feel like something was on the verge of breaking, like something was on the verge of blowing up from the inside. I guess that’s just what happens with time eroding on me, and the disease dances just out of sight just below the surface. Exhaustion mental confusion, words that aren’t words that should be words but they are words escaping words that are leaving me.
I thought about doing Nanowrimo. I’ve done it before. But…I just don’t know anymore anymore, my writing is like a slow drip now, more of a write a little, rest a little, write a little, rest a little variety. I can’t really do marathon writing binges anymore, my mind just feels like splattered pancake batter and then it’s hard to think anymore hard to think again. My brain just has this habit of stopping. Of like, I’m trying to think and my brain is just going nuh-uh, not going to happen bud. No matter how hard I push it push it push it.
But then again, yeah, maybe it’s okay. Maybe it’s better to go slowly and just thinking about everything. Writing 500-1000 words a week isn’t so bad when the words are the right words. But then again all the right words are fleeing me these days. All I have are approximate things, words that are almost there, just short of hitting their mark. It’s the only words I have though, and I guess that should be good enough. These meager scrabble pieces I call thoughts, that I call an architecture of space and character.
Also side note: reading The Art of Intimacy right now, and it’s not about physical intimacy, at least that’s not all it’s about per se. It’s about the intimate spaces between people, about the moments that are close and personal and all too right and all too real.
Some days I just wish we could give big heartfelt speeches and everything is fixed. But that’s not how it all fits together. The speeches don’t work, the heart is broken and not felt or made of felt. It’s just all ripped up and trying to piece it back together is a mistake, or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just part of how everything fits together. Maybe we’re just too solipsistic for our own good, and these conversations that are supposed to fix everything are actually just about one individual forcing his reality, his conceptual reality on other people. Or maybe that reality isn’t even there, it’s just some bubble floating by, waiting to explode.
I realize now I can’t watch anything anymore that’s just all plot, that’s just all about people discussing the plot, that the characters are just talking in character about what’s going on and nothing else. I need MORE from my fiction. I need people, I need things that unfold over the narrative. I need beauty and the bright light of words shining out from our mouths. I need the way the world fills up with each lonely hour, waiting and striving for connection but reaching back empty handed and just somehow, yes, they find the venn diagram between selves and cross that border of solitude even only briefly even only slowly even only just a little and yet…the joys of memory moments of times that that passed when the world wasn’t so full of emptiness.