Why I Don't Write

a stream of consciousness on October 11th, 2022

Every time I try to sit down and write, I feel this incredible restlessness resonate throughout my body. At that moment, I decide, “no, I simply cannot sit still.” So, I proceed to sit still, inundated with inertia, eyes glazed and hands aching to fidget, all so that I do not actually sit down and write. I am sitting still. I cannot write. I cannot sit still, so I cannot write. I cannot write, so I cannot sit still. I am sitting still so that one day when I am truly still, and when I am moving at the speed of light, I can write.

I create these conditions which must be absolutely perfect. The jello must be the perfect buoyancy. Nearly nonexistent, not technically, but also perfect, because who sinks in jello? Not I, because I am sitting still. But also I, because I am standing still, puncturing like a pin. Drowning. Breathing.

If one day the sun is too high in the sky, I simply cannot write. And if it is too low, it’s too late. Or it may be too early. I have not slept or seen a clock in years. That’s a lie. I have seen it, or them, rather, but I have seen them like I have seen countless commercials, and like how I could tell you that you can buy this chopper-smacker-combo-veggie-emulsifier for $24.99, and that the side effects for [insert medicinal-sounding name here] might actually lead to an extremely painful, flaming death if you don’t consult your doctor first (despite us all smiling and mowing our lawns on the big screen). I could tell you all of this, and you would believe me. You do believe me, because you have seen it, too. The TV is essentially telling me to spend at least a few dozen or hundreds or thousands or lifelines before pulling the plug. You know, for the economy. But, I am simply too busy sitting still.

So, here I am. Writing, I suppose.