my intentions to write anything substantial and self-explanatory keep ending in failed attempts. I’m looking at the reasons, trying to pin point everything that stands between my ideas and the process itself. because it is a little bit like a type of sacred passage that one has to go through in order to meet the ends. sometimes I have an idea but the writing abilities are asleep and I cannot put them to work, other times my fingers are aching to do the actual physical aspect of writing and my mind also seems to be ready, but none of the ideas are simply worth developing or even just thinking about.
I was actually surprised when last night, instead of going to sleep I opened my writing files and began writing. I didn’t think I had it in me. the last few days have been unproductive because I have spent the majority of the time inside our apartment, avoiding everything. and yesterday was particularly bad because before I even had a chance to turn around it was seven thirty in the evening. I was tired. exhausted. mostly just incredibly bored. but something still triggered me to write last night. maybe it was the photos we took, maybe it was the stories we shared. I am not sure. it was beautiful. but everything hurt. I cannot explain it.
everything hurts all the time. it’s not a physical pain. it is more of a discomfort, something that I am not able to define properly when I am sober. except when I cross the line they tend to come back to me; suddenly, like a boomerang and I can’t control any of the thoughts. last night I wrote it all down, even though there is still a fragment missing, something that I will never be able to put down, simply because I don’t remember it. but I kept writing and I kept writing; it took a few hours before I stopped. when I turned around I saw that the light has already started changing.