So, my brain. My brain does so many things to me that I’d like to write about, but my brain won’t let me come out and say what those things are. My brain makes figures and figments and formerly fictions. My brain hems its hawings with hee-haw and huckleberries til I knuckle under sputtering unsense. It’ll be a day the day my brain tattles its tales, I tell you. I tell you I can’t. I tell you I can’t tell you what a tale. I tell you I’ll never tell. I can’t. I tell you I can’t tell.
something dead in me that doesn’t want to die and I don’t know do I want it dead or not or do I want it there just dying all the time as one long dying cry might be my style, a way to exhale always waiting for a next and better breath to refulfill me
I’ve been meaning to post something here about how I can’t get myself to write anymore, but I just don’t seem to be able to find the right words. It’s a shame, too, because writing about not being able to write used to be something of a specialty of mine.