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December 23, 2003

:: torn ::

It's all so weird. I can go back and read the posts from a year ago and even less, and I can remember being there, remember the taste, the feel of it, but I feel at the same time so far removed from the place I was in then. I went away and found something, and I came back to collect what I needed and take it away again. Only I haven't left. So now here I am, in this minor crisis of identity, or consciousness, or something - just dire enough that I'm not entirely sure who I am or what I'm becoming; not quite dire eonough that I've forgotten who I was. Maybe this is my trap - the best laid plans, as the man said.

One way or another, I've got to get back to that place in my head where, even when it was bad, it was clear. Somehow, I've got to get back to that place where I saw all the possibility in the world. It's tempting to see this as a function of geography, but I know better. It's tempting to think of this as a function of circumstance, but what isn't? It wasn't so long ago that I wrote three chapters in a day; what's keeping me from writing even one now?

A lot of things are tempting. A lot of things always were. Somewhere in it, I found something beyond temptation. How and where and why I lost it is another question entirely.