Thoughts

“The blank page”

I have papers scattered all over the desk. What remains of it under the mountain of dirty clothes that I have piled on it and that I have to decide to start washing.

Ah how I understand my mother who got angry if as soon as we started the washing machine, we decided to put the clothes in the basket of those to be washed.

The feeling of having to start all over again, for the umpteenth time, when you were sure you were done.

I’m digressing.
Again.


It is the fault of the scattered sheets with half sentences, ideas, food for thought that are not linked. And of this black line that continues to wink on the “word” sheet as if to say “you don’t know what to write eh? you are so proud that it is the thing you do best, write, and look at yourself now, days and days you stare at me and leave me here. Empty. “
It is right.
These little pages on which I persist in writing by hand are useless if I don’t put them to good use. If when I open the page to put the words on paper, they fit together and do not come out. Like a vicious fragment, they remain in the middle, and go neither up nor down. And I don’t digest. And anxiety rises. What if I can’t write anymore? What if I had said everything and there is nothing left?

Me?
That I have an (often uninvited) opinion on everything?
Impossible.

Maybe tomorrow.

And tomorrow comes and this black line beats, the clothes accumulate, the sheets are lost. I think I could write about my adventures, and I can’t think of one, and then I should get the diaries back, but I’m lazy, I put them too high in the bookcase.

I try hard, I could talk about current events instead of the past.
War, death, hunger and destruction.
Better not.

I don’t want it to become a political page, perhaps a social one. But that’s how I am: the good things I do for others I prefer to keep to myself.
I could talk about the fact that I will soon be back on stage.

Soon I will be back on stage, with a text written by me. Point. There is not much more to say …

I drink a chocolate, I have an anxiety attack, I think I have to change house, work and if I can no longer write, I will also have to change my entire life, and that I invent myself at my age? Can I do anything else? To organize. Everything and everyone, except myself, a classic.
Other days pass, other chocolates. Pizza. Anxiety attacks.

Nothing serious, they tell me, you have “writer’s block”.
Ah, nothing serious?
Nothing serious?
And how long does it last? And when does it go away?
Does it go away?

Of course.

Instead, it is Christmas, and then New Year, and finally the show (gone great, by the way). What does not go away is anxiety, a friend of my days, perhaps everyone’s, but some pretend not.

And the block.
I have not written anything for months, the latest articles on the blog are not even mine …

I observe the world, I think I have so much to say, yet every time I try to write it I stop. The black line beats, it winks at me, I thought it mocked me but this time it seems to encourage me, “write on, whatever, just write”, and then I do. What goes through my head, because somewhere you have to start. And so, I made two washing machines, the desk is clear, I have many ideas on these slips. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try to come up with something.
No. Not tomorrow. from now.
Yes, from today.

Which is also Monday.

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