Time.

I've never had much sense for time. It's an effect of Dyspraxia; I simply don't notice the flow of time as others do. What distinguishes one moment from the last has mostly to do with what others are doing around me. I am much more comfortable reacting than initiating. I change my posture and mannerisms and speech based on who I am interacting with. Conversations to me are less about the exchange of information and more about the constant regulation of habits, back-channel, speech-modes and turn-taking. I am much more comfortable reacting. Perhaps the two are linked in some way.

Either way,

Lately... I feel that time is slipping away rather quickly. I don't feel any older. Each birthday, when someone asks "Do you feel like an year old?" I simply say "yes" because I set it in my mind that that's what it feels like. It's all very much the same.

Now, being a Romantic (and a Dyspraxic), I spend much of my time imagining hypothetical situations (partially for the fantasy of it all, partially so I have an idea of how some event or conversation might go). One situation (this one purely for fantasy) involves the classic genie and three wishes. What would I wish for? I've spent a great deal of time thinking of this.

Time.

One of my three wishes would be to have a place outside of reality in which I would not age and no time would pass in the real world. I would be able to travel back and forth from here to there at-will. I've always imagined this place being a very, very small room with a tv/computer, a dim lamp to read by and a pillow and blanket so I can sleep. No windows, no sun, no light. It is a place where I would go to rest and read and write and I would love to have that place right now.

But right now... Lately, as I feel the moments slip away as I spend my time living each day the same (with little progress in anything whatsoever), I've been feeling like going to a different place. I have an image in my head... a room. A living room? There's a couch or two, they're soft. Behind one is a window. A big window. There's another on a different wall. It's green outside, like big, leafy plants and the Sun is shining in as it just begins its descent onto the horizon in the late afternoon.

Such a place is very much opposed to my usual preferences of isolation and darkness. So why won't this image leave my head?

Writer's Block

In all honesty, I rarely get Writer's Block. Even at my worst, I can usually sit down and vomit something into gedit. But this time... I'm not sure that I've even written anything of note since November. I worked on "The Last City of Men" some, but that was almost all editting.

The worst part is that I have the urge to write right now. I've got all these vague ideas and even what seems like a really solid poem idea, but that little pool of water in my head that I scoop words out of seems to have dried up for the time-being.