If I can’t finish this, I probably shouldn’t even start it. Yesterday, I wrote a couple hundred words, using the radical acceptance starter of I love, I’m grateful for, and Wouldn’t it be nice if? And when I got home, it was a bit like running into a brick wall. It took hours to finish. These posts, despite my desire for them to be literary masterpieces, are not meant to take hours and hours of staring and pondering to complete. They’re not supposed to induce agony in their writer. But I am in a bit of a weird place in that some of my usual tasks are not able to be done and I want to be busy.
Also, I want to avoid this constant fight with this quasi-agoraphobia. I don’t want to go and see the Writing Group. I want to duck my head under the covers and just dissipate into the still air. Not sure how that works, but that’s what I’m imagining. Just to feel completely void of purpose and body and visual qualities. I want another dimension to shield me. I don’t even know why. I’ve been pretty non-responsive to them over the past month and I’m sure that’s part of it. I feel guilty about it on this subcutaneous level and I want to jump out of myself to avoid that. I am going, and I have reached out a bit. Not a lot, but I’m still in the arena, if only at the concession stand.
No letters yet. I realize it’s only been four days since I’ve heard from him. I realize that he told me it would be longer than either of us would like for him to reply. I realize that thinking thoughts like, well, if he really wanted to…he’d find the time to write up another genius letter the moment he receives mine are completely unfair and cold and disrespectful of his time and life. It’s a childish, ego-driven response. Griffin and Sabine had to wait ages for another postcard to arrive in their mailbox. Though I imagine, in the interim, they both could get a bit huffy and impatient with the world, the postal service, the clocks on the wall. Really, though, if I let the feelings wriggle under a microscope, they’re all about my self-worth and if in these four days, some real girl with physical form, as so often happens in this material plane we all exist upon, will make the idea of an “epistolary relationship” exceedingly quaint, exhausting, boring, or just, y’know, at the bottom of the totem pole of a lot of compelling priorities.
So I re-read and try and re-assure myself and tell myself, if this *is* anything…if it is peeling itself out of pure imagination and pixelation into earnest emotion, then, I have to figure out how I want it to be. And feel, and look, and how I want to respond to its energy and power. I want to not be paranoid and monstrous and so full of self-loathing so that I can’t be open to what is positive and real that a thing like this can generate. That I already feel, spilling out through the screen, reaching for my throat.
Who knows what will arrive tonight?