Two weeks of summer holidays, many hours of website building, a few less planning for September and another day of too much caffeine. The urge to write swelled as a scream of frustration in my throat, causing me to quit all running applications and come here. These words are an author's asylum, at the break of the tide that refuses to turn and let me write, godamnit.
It's this thing I have, somewhere between Obsessive Compulsive and Autistic Spectrum Disorder, that keeps me from leisure, ergo from writing, because that is what I perceive my engagement in writing to be, a belief essentially sustained by the responses of those around me. There is always so much more to be done that I can attain and to misappropriate tasks to others for the pursuance of artistic endeavour is just plain absurd. It is this thing that I have.
Thus, in order to engage in recreation of any sort, it is first necessary to clear the decks of all clutter, however laborious or arduous that might be. I've even tried writing whilst surrounded with work and other garbage, but it just gets in the way of a solid train of thought, obscuring the path between beginnings and endings.
For now this is a beginning and an ending, or perhaps a pause. One can but hope.