I have been thinking about writing all day. And when I say that, I mean that I've been thinking about it since the moment I woke up until now. I took 2 naps and both times I dreampt about writing. Language becomes liquid in dreams.
Fuck. I should have been spending the entire day getting words down on paper. But instead all I could do is read and sleep. I've had so many pearly thoughts--perfectly formed because they have not been distorted by the page. I was cold...and the only warm place in the world was on the couch, hidden under three blankets and the shuttered blinds of the living room window.When V. got home we sat down togehter for dinner. It wasn't until he asked me about my day that I unexpectedly burst into tears over wilting salad leaves and black olives. Right now I'm sitting in a coffee shop next to the fireplace. Finally, I'm beginning to feel my fear of writer's block unthaw. Sometimes, like today, it freezes me solid.
I think it's time to redefine my direction and find intuition again. Something happened to me during grad school. I don't know if it was the experience of school itself, or if it was the accumulative effect of a hard time in my personal life, too (ok, actually, it was a complicated mixture of both). I feel broken. I guess too much stress and grief all at once can do that to a person. As hard as I try, I can't figure it out. I feel like a two year old: but why? why? why? Does it even matter? I want to make sense of it so that I can move forward, but maybe it's not even necessary to figure it out. What's essential is to grow from it. I don't regret anything. But what I do need to do right now is climb my way out of this pit of fear that has grown like a cancer in my gut.
What I want to do more than anything is just read. I want to read and read and read. But I am so tired of feeling the nag of guilt everytime I do anything that isn't my thesis. I need to finish what I've started so that I can breath freely once again--because this wordlessness is beginning to eat me alive.