I can sit, in suffocating inactivity for hours at a time. I am unmoved by the work of others, although I try to understand, to appreciate, and imbue myself with their teaching and understanding, by a process of staccato osmosis – jumpy as a frog with the shits, leaping from one notion to the next, never settling, never sinking into that exalted state of total immersion.
Is there any hope for me? Can I ever find such inspiration so enthralling as to exclude daily processes, leaving my hair and teeth unbrushed, my body unwashed, lest time spent on such wasteful diversions deny me even one second of revelation?
I dart like a fly from one mish-mash of momentarily searing excitement to the next. Never absorbing: ideas, knowledge, prayers, hopes and disgust pouring through me as though I were full of holes.
Hold me up to the sun and let the light in. There’s nothing here I can remember with any depth of intention. Visuals excite me, briefly, but words don’t stick. It’s hateful, this wanting, this need to be literary but with nothing to back it up. I write all this stuff but my grammar is non-existent, my vocabulary pathetic and my love for the comma bordering on the pathological.
I’m not even frustrated… at least, not today. This is only today and tomorrow will be different.