I can’t, is what the voice says. I can’t do it, I can’t write what I want to, I can’t do the work,
and there are so many how-to articles online, advice columns on how to write an advice column, short five minute reads that add up in time and mental space.
Everyone is an expert, a brand, an online personality split into many, scattered between multimedia platforms, self referential and
ever tangential, I’m making *this* (this post, this space) a project for me, I’ve decided. Twenty five minutes of writing, it’s already part of my day, and the words accumulate over disparate documents and too many journals, stray papers everywhere.
17:33, nineteen minutes remain, this could become a meditation on time (Time), this could become anything (always becoming) (anything and everything and nothing and it’s the mind observing the mind in observation, and…)
17:35 change direction, steer elsewhere, there’s no Destination but there is a point of focus, what will it be?
The projects we chose, the projects I scatter between, the split personalities and push-pull of conflicting motivations. The feelings now: a distaste for public exposure, a fear of judgment, a desire to share, let go, release. I could live happily as a hermit in a home in the woods, I could sit in peace with books of philosophy and poetry and my own writings of tangled prose and incoherent ramblings, except -
the world is so large and alive and interconnected and full of beauty
and each of us, too, every person is a world (vast and alive and connected to All and full of beauty)
17:48 the time is passing, (ah, Time!), there is no conclusion to be said, there is no focal point except to say that
the I can’t still gnaws away, the fears and doubts and all its companions may stay,
the page is no longer blank
— and that is twenty five minutes.