Poised in Mid-air

I can’t write.

I’m not talking about any motor issues or hand-eye coordination problems or human-computer-interface challenges. I’m writing a post about not being able to write. This is more of a translation problem.

Emotion, for me, has always been an abstract thing. Granted, emotion is always an abstract thing; if it were an object I wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to attack it with a sledge hammer.  Which is all the better, because I like to be able to feel, depending on the feeling, of course.

I’ll drag myself back to the point.

The way I see it, anything I think or feel exists in a dimension separate from that of pen and paper, of letters and words and sentences. Thoughts have their own atmosphere, something that can be felt, absorbed, wrapped about oneself.

But when it comes to slapping everything down on paper, I find myself at a loss for words. Quite literally. I find it aggravating that I can’t pull people into that little space in my head and make them see what I see.

Maybe this is what they call writer’s block.

But words are all I have. So I’ll just randomly sling paint on a blank canvas and call it art.

 

 

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