I suspect that somewhere between my bed sheets and the books, I have lost my nerve. I’m missing the nerve to write, that narrative string that I’ve loved so dearly, & most of all, the backbone to post. Maybe it’s nothing? Could it be the things around me? I don’t know what it is yet. I don’t really care to diagnose. I’m not exactly ready to call it writer’s block, but well, I mean, I guess that’s one of the symptoms. I’ve been trying to post for days, but it just doesn’t stick. As if a part of slipped onto to the rim of the coffee mug, while I foolishly thought I was taking it in.
Anyway, I was laying bed, trying really hard to think of one line to write and I couldn’t. So I kept thinking. Sometimes it was the very awkwardness of some moments—when the pencil felt stranger in some way, like it was borrowed craft and not my own—that gave way to some deep truth. I’m sitting here basically betting on the fact that somewhere in this room all these misplaced pieces still exist. It’s like I’m running on the idea or memory of fuel and not the fuel itself.
Maybe you have to finish living some stories before you can grasp them? Maybe intervals of silence are normal? Maybe it’s gone?
So, I’m only here to tell you today that sometimes, you gotta just have faith that the parts of you that seem to have withered away are still there. I think we lose things sometimes in part because we decide that they are gone, so in turn, we stop looking for them. You know? And then years later, when you’re moving out, you find it and you realize, … should’ve of looked a little harder. Should’ve had a little faith.
So I apologize for what feels like morbidly bad writing, but this is an act of faith for me. This is my mind’s way of searching the room, you know?