Hints of excitement and promises to change the
world.
I sat in front of my computer at 1:30 AM and
produced nine words. It’s now 7:18.
Visions have been dancing in my head, taunting me
with ideas since early January. Or maybe they are warnings. They could be
premonitions—The Ghost of Christmas Future predicting misfortunes that lie
ahead if I don’t unfuck myself now. I tried following the argument just write something, but nothing
springs forward to elicit reminders that I will never stop, rallies that I will
never quit.
Instead, my focus today is the hellhole created when
everything hits this trifecta.
Does one affliction come into play before the
others? When my mind refuses to ignore one of the hapless nomads running
rampant—spinning their tale all hours of the day and night, but I never use my
words to create the form I can touch, taste, and hear—is that when everything
grinds to a halt? Perhaps the start is when my muscles refuse any activity
where my body must get out of my chair, away from my desk, stop playing video
chess or streaming mindless movies.
What do I blame? If I can’t name the architect, am
I forced to live out the sentence it created for me? Bouts of self-pity turned
to loathing as the days dragged. One by one, candidates present their case for
my troubles. Multiple sclerosis progression is inevitable; perhaps I am merely
in the next stage of my decline. Catchy abbreviations send me scurrying to my
Google search engine when I wonder if my problem is CTE onset from multiple TBIs.
Maybe I’m a fraud; my 14-year run of reaching for the low-hanging fruit of
catchy quips and shitty stories has reached a cheerless close. Depression is
not curable. Perhaps mine is back. Perhaps it never went away. I could be lazy.
I don’t think the possibilities are endless; none
of the outcomes are pleasant.
Unless it’s just writer’s block, a debilitating
and painful bout of writer’s block. As I lean forward to rap my head on the desk,
my mind and voice struggle to dictate a story. My inner voice is screaming, “Write
something, but don’t just write anything. Make it meaningful and put your heart
into every word.”
Two more restless nights of sleep. Two more long
days of agony. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 15,000 calories.
If this works, I can ignore the first two months
of 2024.
I really hope it was just writer’s block.
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