Writing requires time for a quiet mind. Another essential luxury is the patience to string sentences together into something coherent. Having sentences slithering through the brain is just noise. Editing paragraphs of them in the head while in the shower is a waste of time and water. When you do get the odd moment to sit down and peck the keys its too over whelming. Paralysis in the face of the avalanche of words coming down the slopes of a mental volcanic. Vut tu du kno?
In the background, the voices in the head are cackling from their cushions. They passing the wine around and keep stirring the neural cauldron. The most frightening part of all this is not zoning out at the dinner table. It is the thought of not seeing the truck running the red at an intersection. All because I was endlessly sharpening a metaphor for some silly nonsense while waiting for the green.
There’s no where to run when its in your head. Only a psychiatrist (for a stinging fee) will even consider what its like. Mostly they would say: “you are just bragging about your repressed literary talents”. Shitting blog posts has nothing to do with talent. I just don’t want to keep editing the history of the Bare Handed Wild Boar Hunting Club for the nth time during the commute, in the shower, or when told to “hold”.
Perhaps its time for a decent brandy, a photograph or, more realistically a post like this. All in the mad futile hope for the chattering to stop (I have repeatedly tried and failed at meditation).
Crap I’ve spent too many minutes writing this as I have too many times before. When I should have attended to the todo list. Lobotomy is not an option. But there has to be something else. If you know one tell the comment box. Perhaps 2012 will reveal some answers. Murphy says otherwise.