I spent twenty minutes writing this first sentence. It’s been too long. I worry about consternating, finding meaning, researching, emoting, thinking, the weight of my words. I worry about everything and do nothing. I teeter on the edge of activity, afraid. I reread this paragraph, adding commas and changing words, chiseling the marble until only a rock pile remains. How many times do I have to chant these incantations before they let me pass?

Writing used to be a daily exercise. Now, I carry my Moleskine each day as a talisman. I believe that only by thinking big thoughts will I reach meaning. My Moleskine remains empty with no great theses and no great words. Silence has not revealed its meaning or its argument. I revel in distraction and beat myself up because I do nothing. I pine for the days of consternations, I burst at the seams wanting to write, wanting to say something, share something, but not finding the means or the energy or the effort or the millions of other things that I thought necessary. Fuck meaning. Fuck little empty black books.

I don’t have anything to say today. I dreamed of spinning my wheels through pages of consternations, mooning over how the words have not converted me, that I don’t think deep or meaningful or coherent thoughts. I want to see something new, know that I created something even if it adds nothing to the world except one more permutation of letters among those of the million monkeys.

My mind spins over canyons of caffeine, and I want to grab something, say something that is relevant, but I have no guidance and no maps of the canyon floor. Consternations of un-deeds are all I’m left with. That was the plan and it now seems hollow. I want to say more, I want to be more, but I am what I am which at this time is next to nothing. I’m comfortable with that.

The words are there now. I don’t mind that they have no target, no well-thought argument, no research, no statements, just unadulterated words that don’t raise banners and don’t indulge in intellectualizing of anything. They are just that: words. What is more beautiful than one’s own words and one’s own smells and one’s own thoughts and musings?

“Love has grown like a fucking plant.” There. I said it.