Monday, October 21, 2013
I can't lie: it's an effort to write, these days. My whole person feels drawn in, silent, increasingly put off by the noise of the television, the radio, the unending online chatter. Writing here is a mystery. Not so much an aversion to communication; I don't even know what to communicate right now.
There is a slowly solidifying possibility that my time alone at home is drawing to end - that I could be working, soon. I should be blazing through the hours I have. Taking care of paperwork, filing, mending, organizing, marking off those last projects still stubbornly stuck on my list. I should be writing, drawing, endlessly. I should be climbing that hill.
All I want to do is curl up and read in the silence. Or cook. Which - yes - is downright crazy coming from me. I can't explain it. I am feeling just fine, in general. Just fine, just humming at the lowest frequency. No bother.
Not to worry. This post right here - this is working through it. I'm working through it. Head down, eyes on my own paper, but most certainly working through it.