I sometimes make an effort to try and write again. Not any kind of serious thing, just write towards no particular end, without a mapped out way or even reason, small, poor attempts to get back that stream of consciousness. In my mind I am always writing, translating every moment, gesture, emotion into letters that form words, only to exist momentarily, long enough to be formed and then immediately erased, never reaching a paper surface.
Maybe that explains my relationship with the world. Maybe that is exactly why I always feel so disassociated from the present. Because I am not present. I am writing, or directing, or watching but rarely acting. I managed to grow a bit large for own shell but then I shrank back again and later grew immobile and cold.
*
Except it's not cold. It is, in fact, so suddenly hot, so overwhelmingly hot, scorching the shreds of me, it sometimes feels like the body is
wrecked
from tidal waves on the inside.
*
