I can’t believe the corners of me that you have slipped into. You tell me you love me but how is that possible when you’ve undressed my heart? Sometimes I experience writer’s block. Lately, the problem has shifted a little. I have so much in my brain, but I can’t seem to find a good enough reason to write it down. I mean it’s time for me to grow up a little bit, and if this is really something that I would like to do then I should at least do myself the favor of keeping a pen and paper around.
Ernest Hemingway advised me to write drunk and edit sober and I suppose that’s exactly what I’ll do. He did, after all, seem to know what he was doing. As I sit here on my bed, six feet underwater, I’m thinking of the many things that I could ramble about. The types of thoughts I consider writing down at the moment of their birth, but can never find the motivation for.
I could tell you about the restless feeling that has had me in its hands for several days. I could tell you how I smoke cigarette after cigarette trying to drive it away, and how nothing seems to work. I could tell you how I think the feeling might go away when I am with Calvin. I could tell you about the hunger I feel. But maybe, for honesty’s sake, I have nothing to say.