I have been unable to write anything decent for a while now, despite having a self-imposed "one horrible poem I will probably regret publishing publicly a week" quota. It is partly due to lack of inspiration, but it is largely due to lack of motivation to let my thoughts and feelings flow through my fingers as I search for the right letters, words, and punctuations on the keyboard before me. I wonder if poets and lovers and dreamers had this same problem with the typewriter, a device that rewards the emotion and soul you put into it with an experience full of sensations.
the sound of each key imprinting itself upon the paper ...
the sight of vulnerability as it's constructed in written form ...
the feeling of a tangible product that breathes life and existence, a physical representation of joy and sorrow and fear and anticipation and hope...
I have been unable to write anything decent for a while now, because I have been holding my breath. It is partly due to the shifting ground I find myself standing on, but it is more largely due to internalizing factors so far outside of my control that they might as well be determined by how the stars are aligned. I wonder if it is possible for your mind to suffer the same way from asphyxiation as your brain and body would, if somehow the pieces of your heart not responsible for pumping blood to your extremities can also die from a lack of oxygen.
the sound of the beat that drives you slowing down to a barely there tempo...
the sight of silver stars you admire when you emerge quickly from darkness...
the feeling of hands and arms and legs and bodies intertwined through the holes in the wall between you...
I have been unable to write anything decent for a while now.
So please, do not mind me while I try to take another breath.
A deeper breath, one I can finally release.
