It's been a week of writer's block. And a day of complete worthlessness. I listened to the strained sounds of coffee brewing, spent a grey afternoon on top of cold sheets, and kept my eyes closed for as long as possible. I attempted to hack out some poems earlier, but they all wilted on the page. I thought about posting some old pieces, but that felt too defeatist. So, these are the thoughts of the thoughtless.
I'm not really thoughtless. In fact, I have far too many items competing in my brain blurred by recent rejection of the amorous sort. It happens every time I face the self-doubt of not being what someone else wants. I have so much I want to say only to have it take the shape of heartache hangover and verbal vomit. Words attempting to capture brief and lovely moments - thinking the words on the page makes those moments real, permanent. But what I typically end up with is an abstraction of what went wrong.
I suppose if I learned to doubt myself less and discipline my writing habits more; I'd be more prolific and effectual. If I learned to not take every slight personally, I wouldn't churn out drivel such as, "unlike the descents before, this one hasn't bruised or caused a minor concussion. It has merely left me fidgeting with bits of loose gravel and pressing the rough edges into the soft spots around my knee. Envisioning the trickle of blood and consequent rust tint around a future scar."
I'm hoping after a few more rehearsals I will have new inspiration for posts. Posts about celebration of the female form, humor, shaking my "thing," and adventures at the Tango. I promise to spare you all of self-deprecatory pieces about failed dates - unless they end up being incredibly humorous. Which knowing myself, is a distinct possibility.