I’ve been sending myself texts–cryptic messages 140 characters long and revealing bits of story trapped up in my head and anxious to be released. My life feels life that these days–cryptic moments trapped in routine and anxious to be released. In my line of work summer allows a particular level of freedom that cannot be replicated in a 9-5 setting. The last few years have seen this freedom slip away, through responsibilities and tragedies. It wears on me. It builds up like a thick plaque until I’m unable to recognize how far from relaxed and alright I really am.
Tonight I put a piece of work to bed that I’d been fretting over for months. I could not find a way to get over the hurdle of the last few pages. I have no reason for why this happened. It is less Writer’s Block than burnout than an urgent need to step away and fill my mind with new material.
Tomorrow I’m going to buy a video game and sit down with my kids and play as if I am one of them. Near the surface I am one of them, and I’ve dressed in my grown up clothes for way too long.