we’re all guilty.
some more than others, i expect, but right now, it’s me. there is something i’d like to be working on and i feel incapable of starting it. well, that’s not exactly true, i have started it, but it feels as if it might be too overwhelming a task to continue. it’s part of the reason why i took a ‘hiatus’ from this blog–short as it may have been–i was hoping that the time off would allow me the space, the opportunity to tackle the project. but no. it sits still in its folder(s), untouched (not unloved, though), waiting patiently–words have a way of doing that, don’t they? waiting patiently, that is, where would they go? your ‘you’ tapping its foot in exasperation at your lack of motivation–waiting as you are for the spark to light the fire under your sagging ass (which comes with age, the sagging ass, another disappointment.) it’s possible that writing about it, publishing my confessional, that inability to focus on what i think may be a good thing for me to do, but using all of the convenient exasperations of life to set it aside for another day, would be helpful. today, i’m afraid, it is not true. this may be the story of my life…the desire to create burns brightly, much gets done, and yet i walk away from it time after time (whatever ‘it’ may have been) leaving the room half-painted (an obscure reference to an early apartment in chicago, written about already, stored in a drawer, pulled out today for a little airing, it’s inconsequential and you should ignore it.) what i’m hoping is that by nagging at myself in public, i may find the strength of purpose to [i should not say “dive in” or “plunge in”–the trite phrase my bailiwick, my waterloo, but those phrases came first to mind–caught in the throat of my typing fingers–and now i’ve spoiled whatever other way of saying it i may have thought of and so…] do what needs to be done to achieve the fantasy that is swirling in the nether regions of my consciousness.