Cabin Fever, Writer’s Block, and A Brief Break from Reality.

Photo Above via nypost.com

It’s so annoying to not be able to finish something. Like a man in his 50s, suddenly losing his vitality, I find myself in a lonely, stagnant state. One moment, you are flying; the words pouring out of you. Everything makes sense, characters come together and a beautiful story emerges from the maddening swirl that is your brain. My brain, to be specific. I know I am capable of doing something. Creating something great. Like Kanye West’s Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, the voices in my head are stamped out with each growing pain, each blink, each muscle twitch.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to do. I can’t make myself feel. It’s the ultimate paradox. Or perhaps, conundrum. What are these words? What do they mean? I doubt my existence. I watch characters on a small screen; their lives are so complex and intriguing. I can only imagine myself in their shoes. I love the escapism, yet I feel a deep, aching sadness that I can’t create. Or perhaps, I just won’t. I can’t make my brain work correctly.

I want to close my eyes and sleep forever. I am just so tired. Life is utterly exhausting. I find the life draining out of me with every passing day. The meeting of my eyelids is the only thing that washes calm over my stiffening body. Dark swirls of heavy rest are around; I can see it in the air. And I’m lonely. Sometimes, I hold my own hand, and for a moment I pretend it’s someone else. Someone sleeps next to me. He’s beautiful, with azure eyes and thick, black hair. He pulls me in close, whispering that I’m safe. He loves me. I love him. I only see him when I sleep, though. He has no name, he doesn’t need one. He’s just a part of me; my other half, absorbed into my own being. I know he’s not real, but it doesn’t matter. He comforts me, he makes me feel less alone. He’s no god, he doesn’t demand I worship him. He’s a peaceful fantasy. A blissful figment of my imagination.

I know I must sound crazy, dear reader. I assure you, I very much am. A calm, gentle, calculated insane. Not to instill fear, but I must explain. I mean no harm, but I know my synapses are wired wrong. Or, maybe everyone else is wired wrong, and I’m the only sane one. I mean imagine that! What if everyone in the immediate world came to the consensus that the sky is orange? You can see it is clearly, plainly blue. You point this out. You are ostracized for daring to challenge the authoritarian. That is what I feel. I poked the bear.

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