There’s a small window open, here. I fill it with words, in the hope that I can remind myself of what it was like to do this on a regular basis. Still, I’m distracted.
My attentions floats from this to that, and whatever that is isn’t important at all, but it gives me a distant feeling of pleasure, and that’s enough to keep me attached. I dream of simplicity, and minimalism, and a place in the sun that’s still cold enough to make me shiver.
An eraser of love.
I’m trying, though. It feels strange, to try. I think that the medication did a lot to diminish the need to attempt things. She tells me that the pills took some of the edge off. Now I sit and pray that it wasn’t the loss of the edge that murdered my creative career.
I wonder how much is enough? It seems that this is, for now.