I just want to write but I don’t seem to be writing.
I seem to be too busy not doing anything much.
Lots of lists.
Lots of thoughts.
Lots of things pulling on me until my arms tear off and my mind breaks in two and my body just says ‘enough’. And I sit down. And it asks me ‘what are we going to do?’ and I tell it, ‘I don’t know body. I can’t seem to figure it out. Every time I think I’ve got it right it seems I’ve got it nearer to wrong.’
‘It is? I don’t want to lose you. I can’t bear to lose you again and I’m just SO scared of living if it means losing you.’
There are no answers here. None that I’ve worked out how to put into art or practice just yet. Maybe they are here or have been here but they aren’t now.
I don’t know how to embrace. I don’t know how to embrace! Perhaps that’s the biggest issue after all, perhaps the lack of embracing or knowing how to is going to cause me to drift on and on forever with my limbs torn from my body and my mind split in multiples of two.
I don’t know why I can’t seem to do this. I can’t seem to keep the balance right – everything keeps changing. In me, around me. Through me. Inaction breeds action and action breeds too much action, and I just need to rest. World let me write. Self, let me write. I want to stop all the inessential but then when I do I find that life becomes too quiet, my mind too absorbed in the loneliness to feel into the right words. And so I drift. And I stagnate. And I tell myself that it's not stagnation, that it is busyness, that I will look back and see it as something; but I don’t and it’s not.
I drift. Still-ly. I drift.
From P. E. Holdsworth