I’ve been out of it for a while. For a while now, I’ve felt like a different person. Getting back my mojo, lost somewhere in the piles of freshly laundered adult responsibilities, is near impossible. I've stared at a blank screen for the past day. I've thought about writing for the past month. Like grabbing smoke, my best intentions point to a fire, then dissipates.
I miss it – but what exactly? Is it the flow, the qi; the ecstasy of being utterly within and therefore with-out myself when the words come on?
I miss it when the words come on strong.
It’s a feeling that some swimmers achieve. Good swimmers slice through water like sunlight through a clear window. Their movements are effortless – each stroke is an expression of some transcendental piece of math – the human form giving form to a dizzying expression of universal art. Everything is connected as water is to air as to breath as to skin as to throbbing muscles and a pounding rhythmic heart.
Swimming, for me, is a bitch. I swim as well as a fat kid waddling through quicksand. But I get it – I get that feeling because when the words come on strong, because it’s must be the same kind of thrill, the same kind of goddamit I love the entire world oh my god oh my god oh humanity how I love you.
It’s like riding solo on a bike for your very first time.
When the words go away, they don’t come back as easily. Working 9-5 will often scare the words into submission. The drone of memos and powerpoints require a mild-mannered side of me, an adult figure that uses only proper words to limit risk while providing just enough persuasion and ambiguity to keep things moving. Slowly, my capacity to imagine, to create and string disparate ideas together dulled into a lump of ill-used boringness. Like clay that hardens without water, I find myself attempting to construct stories with crumbling thoughts.
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