Inert!
Leaving for New York on Friday. I'll be there for 6 days. I think she thinks I have a solution, or that she can convince me to stay. She'd be wrong either way.
The looming trip has me nostalgically looking up old friends and acquaintances: that guy I went on a few dates with who was into philosophy, 5th grade crushes, high school classmates. As if I was trying to piece together some life or something that I think I should have had, just so that I have something concrete to "go back to." I've burnt a lot of bridges, and over time, that decision appears less appealing. Maybe its that I am secretly afraid that I will end up with nothing but a career. I'll be 30, having loved and lost, too distracted to make friends, working 24/7. Or maybe I'm afraid that deep down inside I'm comfortable with that - or that its something I want.
But truthfully, all I have really been thinking about is how I can't write. Its not an environment thing, or a medium thing. Its me, I cannot write. There was a time when I was turning out 3 -7 pieces a week. Now I have dry spells for months. Of all the talents that I could lose, I lose the one that means the most to me. I wouldn't mind so much if I couldn't paint or draw as well as I used to, or if the music I played didn't sound quite the same. But not being able to write, or writing SHIT all the time is unsettling. I even hate this journal entry, but I'll post it anyway.
Its a slow slide back into the things I used to have, the life I used to live, the person I used to be. I'm applying new information, in preparation for the things to come. I'm mixing genres, really, hoping to find something that clicks. Because, if I don't, I will have to choose one.
The looming trip has me nostalgically looking up old friends and acquaintances: that guy I went on a few dates with who was into philosophy, 5th grade crushes, high school classmates. As if I was trying to piece together some life or something that I think I should have had, just so that I have something concrete to "go back to." I've burnt a lot of bridges, and over time, that decision appears less appealing. Maybe its that I am secretly afraid that I will end up with nothing but a career. I'll be 30, having loved and lost, too distracted to make friends, working 24/7. Or maybe I'm afraid that deep down inside I'm comfortable with that - or that its something I want.
But truthfully, all I have really been thinking about is how I can't write. Its not an environment thing, or a medium thing. Its me, I cannot write. There was a time when I was turning out 3 -7 pieces a week. Now I have dry spells for months. Of all the talents that I could lose, I lose the one that means the most to me. I wouldn't mind so much if I couldn't paint or draw as well as I used to, or if the music I played didn't sound quite the same. But not being able to write, or writing SHIT all the time is unsettling. I even hate this journal entry, but I'll post it anyway.
Its a slow slide back into the things I used to have, the life I used to live, the person I used to be. I'm applying new information, in preparation for the things to come. I'm mixing genres, really, hoping to find something that clicks. Because, if I don't, I will have to choose one.