Paralyzed. Not writing. Not painting. Not drawing. Not sculpting. Not outlining, brainstorming, sketching.

Not unreasonable, either; I’ve had a bit of a week. Last weekend was good, but then it was topped off by the beginning of quite a tumult. A series of events that caused quite a stir. I wasn’t able to concentrate all week, didn’t listen to any of my lecture series (I’ve been studying Chemistry and Particle Physics lately, after recently completing a long course of American History), could hardly concentrate on work. Still feeling a bit scatterbrained. Still feeling upheaval.

I tried writing for a few hours on Thursday, got about three typewritten pages down for a story I hadn’t touched in almost two years. I didn’t look at the original story before starting, and while I managed to start within a paragraph of where I left off (upon later examination) and remembered the characters names (give or take a vowel), when I read a couple pages of the older draft, I suddenly felt like what I’d just written was crap. So I didn’t try again yesterday. It’s too hard. It feels too far away, too foreign. Everything I have to write.

Even this post feels like it’s further than arm’s length away. Just out of reach of my paralyzed arms.

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Author, artist, romantic, insomniac, exorcist, creative visionary, lover, and all-around-crazy-person.