there is something weirdly necessary and satisfying about the 'compose' field, something that makes it easier than writing in a journal or a word document, yet still feels just as noncommittal and unscrutinized. i have lately been unable to type a single word, or to write one by hand. this is depressing and frustrating, because i still wake up each day feeling like i have to write. it's the equivalent of dry-heaving: i feel like i need to but nothing comes out.
i've been going through word docs and reading old story and essay starts, ones that went nowhere. this morning i've reading from an old defunct blog, and stumbled upon this entry that caught my attention. recently a friend and i collectively wondered if we were progressing at all or just writing the same things and feeling the same feelings over and over. They say most writers continuously return to the same subject, they circle around it like a lion to a zebra, never able to fully attack or grasp or consume it. this is certainly the case.
:::
High Ceilings.
August 13, 2010
i've been going through word docs and reading old story and essay starts, ones that went nowhere. this morning i've reading from an old defunct blog, and stumbled upon this entry that caught my attention. recently a friend and i collectively wondered if we were progressing at all or just writing the same things and feeling the same feelings over and over. They say most writers continuously return to the same subject, they circle around it like a lion to a zebra, never able to fully attack or grasp or consume it. this is certainly the case.
:::
High Ceilings.
August 13, 2010
I got to Iowa yesterday, and I cannot say that I’ve been happy these past two days. I have no furniture. I have no car. I have no bed. I have no AC! I have internet, thankfully. I am sitting here on a hardwood floor in the middle of a big, empty, apartment, wondering just what exactly I’m doing. I have a friend who I’m scared of. I am trying to keep an open mind, as my morning meditation suggested, but even that’s eluding me. I wonder, sometimes, why I put myself in these positions. Ones where I’m starting all over, building a new life, entering an unknown. Why? Why not just do the simple thing and stay in one place? Stick to what’s familiar. By now I’d probably be a lot further along in life. Maybe I’d have a strong relationship. I’d have a circle of close friends that I’m comfortable with instead of scattered ones across the globe. I might have a successful career. But isn’t that why I’m moving around so much? Because I DON’T want a career? Instead I’m chasing a dream, and it’s taken me to Italy, Boston, New York, Kentucky, and now, Iowa. Please let this be where I pin the dream down. I’d love some roots.
