Wanting to write is a problem. I want to write something good, something interesting that will bring a response. But I can't. I twist this way and I twist that way, but all I get is a pain in my tummy.
The problem is I want to write with all my desires and fears. So I try to replicate what I have done in the past. And it still hurts.
Of course I know the problem and it is me. I am the problem. I have to get out of the way before I can write. But I can't get out of the way until I give up, until I hit rock bottom. But I am doing everything I can to rise. I know I should rise not fall to the bottom. Can I assassinate myself? No. Can I wallow in self pity until everything seems hopeless. Now this is a possibility. But the worst thing is I would like a friend who would help me get to rock bottom, but no friend would ever do that, and if they did, they would be no friend.
So here I am friendless, clawing my way back from extinction. And yes the horizon beckons me. But I truly don't want to fall off the edge of the Earth even to discover myself. So murder would seem to be on the cards. I am to be murdered by my other self, a self without remorse, a self that seems adrift from the social skills, a self that appears from nowhere, and disappears when it is over. If only I knew their name, I would call and call and call. Is that you, I would say, how about coming over. Oh, you think I am too bossy. Well, that is why I need you, to turn me down, to turn me off for a while, I don't know what you are going to say and it always comes as a surprise. So I wonder who you are and where you come from. But you are entirely out of my control and that is as it should be.