I set an alarm. But this half-hearted effort to write daily doesn’t always make sense to me. There are too many days where I wake with nothing on my mind and then, while typing, thoughts form on their own – and I am not sure they are mine.
How healthy is that thought when you are a person who continually questions the reality of their perception?
But even if my worst fear is true – that we create our own realities as we go according to whim and to gastrointestinal status – does it even matter that we have this meta perspective? We are caught in a kind of existential paradox because there is no passive state that is an acceptance of reality – because even that passivity is an active state of creation – because there is no non-fictional self.
What if I am randomly choosing words that force changes that ultimately will not be a “good thing”? What if I am writing myself into a corner – scattering red herrings along the way to a dead end. This isn’t how the story is supposed to be going at this point. A rambling rough draft where the character just talks and talks, and the whole thing is overwritten and simultaneously void of craftsmanship.
Maybe it is time to return to haibun. To ghazals. Maybe American sentences.
Once I knew what I wanted to do, but I blink: now this, and now this.
So many times I have (silently) scoffed at people who talk about needing to write. Maybe because I want another need – one that makes less sense of living.