A tea kettle whistling – someone else is up at 5:53 am too. A neighbor.
I’ve had a writer’s block and an artist’s block at the same time – I don’t remember the last time that happened.
I remember when I could claim that this never happened. I didn’t really believe in being blocked. And maybe that’s still true.
Or maybe I just didn’t believe in it because it hadn’t happened to me, which is how so many ill-informed beliefs are born.
Or maybe when you have little to no responsibilities in life, it’s easy to be unblocked. Adventure slips through your fingers.
I simply, chose other things to happen.
I skim through some old stuff. What was I even going on about? What was I doing? Was it good? Which direction now?
Who is even reading this? Why do I create a public stage, broadcast a public channel in which to hide?
Suffering gets boring. How much of it is worth expressing?
I don’t regret recording it.
Paralysis, though – that’s an empty space – but something happens in that.
In the space of doing nothing.
A mystery to us. It doesn’t always seem worth examining.
This mystery wasn’t, isn’t.
Consciousness needed to shift. Without analysis or interrogation.
I take out my pen, for something that can’t be erased. I prefer the hand just a little bit childlike sometimes.
Like what’s always come most naturally – a style mostly resisted.
What was wrong with that?
Why resist anything? Why resist anything?
It’s not always worth it to be so adult. What is beyond adult?
The struggle is too adult.
But artists aren’t childish, like they insinuate.
Art is ageless. Period.