The boys are in the living room with The Simpsons video game. I think our upstairs neighbours may be throwing furniture around — at least that’s how it sounds from directly below. There are children shrieking out by the pool. Me? I’m relishing the the feel of freshly circulated air on my bare feet.

I’m staring at a blank piece of paper trying to remember what it was like when I could put words down and leave them be. I am remembering how I used to have the freedom to write, to express myself, to experiment with sounds and the way vowels are purple, maybe green. Now I write disdainfully, already knowing that I will take a scalpel to sentences and paragraphs, laying and pinning each layer out to catalogue the errors and imperfections.  Gouge away descriptions, reduce everything to the barest outline, skeletons stretched with skin worn thin over the joints.  I know I am a minimalist at my core.  I took to heart “Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away” (Antoine de Saint Exupery) but feel that I may have taken it too far.

This was my day today.  I have spent most of it wanting to write something but not being able to put words on paper.  I got a lot done at work but somehow felt unfulfilled.  Now, I am trying again and I am distracted again.

One day I will accept that I can’t find my own path.  I have to forge a new one.

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