I’m losing my shit slowly. I sit at my computer. I get lost in open pages, projects lurking in multiple folders, the screen itself is too bright.
I sit in front of a typewriter. I put in lined paper. I put in tracing paper. I write a letter about writing a letter, I write my name on top of a page.
I open my new journal. The empty page mocks me with its empty stare.
Where are the words? Where is the muse? This is rhetoric, I know where they are. They stand peaking in between the blinds of resistance. They let in glimmers of light and the only thing the light shines on is the dust floating around this empty room.
I’m losing my shit and it’s all cause I’m afraid to to get off the pot of resistance.
I want to be braver. I want to make mistakes. I want to tell resistance to go fuck itself, but I’m resistant to burn any more bridges of creative process.