i had an idea of what to write about and then in the length of time it took to get started, it up and went away.
which i guess was my basic intent. to write about brains, and how they change, and how-- reading something i wrote back in 2018, 2019-- i'm alarmed by the clarity and depth of my own thinking. how, reading it now, i cannot even fathom how i could've written it then. so impossible does clarity feel today.
the vibe of my writing in the last year is best described as disorganized. i've been telling myself it's intentionally disorganized, but i'm actually not sure that's true, so much as that disorganization is what's been on offer.
perhaps what alarms me most about the writing from 2018, 2019, is that it was produced during an incredibly awful time. a time of profound stuckness and hustling, when i'd been kicked out of the uk and was living with my parents.
and i kept writing because i thought i would die if i didn't. and to write, i had to wake up at 3 am. so i had no life to speak of beyond my family and my books and my words. and, i think, to the best of my ability, i tried not to let myself be affected by that, i tried to believe it was an ok way to live.
it wasn't, but i tried.
so it's not a great feeling to see how dazzling was the clarity of my thinking. it's not great to be left here wondering if i have to live like that to produce writing like this. because i so very much want to believe it's possible to be happy too. though maybe it isn't.