I’ve been trying this new thing where I just write without hesitation and much deliberate planning. And it’s been more difficult than I remember free-thought writing to be.
Yet, once again, here I am tightly fastened to my writer’s block.
A persuasive excuse for this could be that I have become enslaved by the gruesome hours on Mondays and Wednesdays that the administrative fates have gifted me with, pinning me to my bed as soon as the sun withers below my window pane. It could also be that fat pot of homemade roasted butternut squash topped with coarsely chopped fried walnut and sage-gemelli I just devoured. No sweat, no shame, no judgement. I can’t take back one cooked shell. Or it could be that I process my thoughts a lot more efficiently nowadays. As to show I don’t have sparse loose thoughts and emotions pent up inside me.
It’s a good thing, I think. Stability. I love it, what the hell. I love having a set routine and giving my commitments my all because I know that I can have a fresh start the next day with something new and invigorating. Yet, right now, in this very moment when I want to write or have this burning desire to say something, I find myself stagnant and mute.