It’s a desire to write, one that comes not paired with the muse of what to write about. Maybe it’s because my emotions are a bit muddled, confused as they have no form or purpose. This always happens, especially when coming off a few busy weeks. My body and are geared up to act but nothing to work towards. My desire gets all twisted, and I can’t figure out what to do with myself. I’ve have been sitting at this screen for hours, and yet the words haven’t been appetizing.
Maybe it’s my mind and body’s way of telling me to rest, to relax for a moment before the next wave comes to shore. I can’t do that, I refuse. There is so much that I still need to do that I haven’t gotten to in the meantime, the things that I want to have done because they are the things that bring me joy, and yet I feel so depleted at weeks end what am I to do.
I try, fight this current, give it form so I can do what I need to get through this. I want to do great things, and great things require action, so I must snap out of this punch drunk state and keep moving forward.
I think there is merit to resisting this urge to curl up in a ball give myself away to this catatonic hedonism. To throw myself at the wall over and over again, knowing at least I tried instead talked about it. It hurts as my mind strains to find the keys and symbols but at least it’s something.
I don’t have many words left, even now I am scraping the bottom of the barrel. Maybe after a nice night and good sleep, they will return to me, but until then, I will just keep writing on my own. To struggle is to live, it’s the only way to find lasting happiness, so now are the moments that will seek to define me in this long and short life of mine.