Somehow, I lost my inner drive for writing
tonight. Even after focusing on various projects. All I can do is whine. Bitch.
Moan. I’m tired of using my journals as a soundboard of depression. As a source
of complaints or disappointments. Words should fall down into my lap without
restrictions. Beautiful words. Intricate phrases detailing aspects of my life
and observations regarding Brendan or Ricky or my parents. About my current
reading projects. About the jogger who passed me tonight on my walk. Athletic
Achilles. Thick legs. Built like a wrestler. Leaving me feeling old and cliché.
My grey beard frizzle and brittle. But what scares me, I cannot create any new
fractured lines. The source of inspiration no longer a source of inspiration.
It’s not like I was not productive today. Finished a major chunk of the design
for a new book plate. Organized more material for Ulysses lectures next school semester.
Good material for class discussions and student research. So why this feeling
of inadequacy? Why this silence?