count the adverbs.
i remember when i used to write about my life. in fact, i remember when i used to write at all. lately, it's taken such force and anxiety to even record much of anything, and i'm on the verge of uncovering the reason. i have my suspicions, which tend to be an amalgamation of many confusing, transitory parts. there are episodes of momentary rapture followed rather abruptly by crippling doubt and panic, half-formed ideas and sketches and plans for a life that i've never been confident or bold enough to legitimately lead. i have revelatory dreams that crush me upon waking, deplorable dreams that leave me uneasy for days, unstable and poor (stress-)eating habits (or stable, i suppose, in being generally unstable and poor). i read for hours, stare at the ceiling for hours (or at least in the ceiling's direction). i've become so jealous in reading, much more attuned to beauties and nuances and diction i know i could never emulate or pretend to create myself. somehow and somewhere in this mess, in this post-graduate, nomadic, existential (i hate using that word) shift, i feel like i've lost more than i've gained. sometimes i read phrases, sentences, paragraphs over and over to myself and find it difficult to breathe because it's all so goddamn accidentally perfect and genius and haunting. when did i become so riddled with this anxiety and pressure in creating what i love? and why can't i create it anymore?