i don't want to write anything. I'm irritable and annoyed. Just finished my third pot of coffee, and it's after midnight. Long night ahead.
I haven't wanted to write for a while, as evidenced by my artless and minimal babbling recently. In my long history as a diarist, I have always wanted to not write. But I wrote, from habit or novelty, and I really felt inspired at times. I could lose myself in the words; I would become unconscious of my posture, of the chair in which I sat, I would lose track of the time, and my fingers would find the right keys without my help, as I persued a thought.
A decade ago, I held at bay a sense of writing drudgery and disenchantment, which I knew loomed large, but just slightly less large than my committment to write. I was driven by fascination with uncovering and exercizing my voice which I had always kept buried and stifled. But I knew I would eventually lose it again unless I addressed the reasons I buried it in the first place. I didn't want to face those things, and I still don't. Avoid the issue; that's how I have always handled it in the past, except now I am down to a whisper, and even that is slipping away.
Don't contemplative monks somewhere have a practice which is titled something like, 'The Grand Silence?' There are great benefits in freely choosing to keep one's mouth shut, like becoming centered, quieting the interior frenzy, and hearing one's own heart. Likewise, there are great costs in repressing one's voice out of fear. I recently told a friend who is struggling to confront his fears, "You are creating distractions from what you need to do. Only those fears emerge which we are ready to address, and we draw to ourselves challenges no greater than what we are able to confront. If it is there, you are ready."
If my soul brings me to the place I need to be, and I reject the opportunity... I think that is a kind of blasphemy, and its results include the spiritual equivalent of a failure to thrive.
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