It has happened before, enough times for me to realize how it works. That constant spleen that forces me to hate my state, is here again. However, this time it shows a different face. I’ve found out some things, made some discoveries, thanks to this stubborn resilience.
I’ve learned that after the third time I clip my finger nails off, it is time for me to leave. No place, no routine, and no environment can stand for the fourth. I don’t clip off my nails that often, though. They tend to grow slowly I tend to support their size for long periods of time. The idea of clipping them off never comes until the keyboard tells me how real they are. Touching the keys is not as easy as before, my fingernails get in the middle all the time. It is time for them to be pruned. This is the second time in this semester. I’m about to leave this place, I know.
I’ve also learned that I can’t subsist without doing this. I can’t keep going without telling me stories, without making noise, without demolishing my own previous views, without replenishing the army of figments that my imagination works with. I need to write in order to survive.
The time has come, then, for me to sit, and write. But writing down things is not a mere matter of putting the fingers on movement. It is a matter of having complete (or having the feeling of producing complete) pieces of writing. I need to feel roundness in the sentences. I need to empty my head, and this is the only way to do so. There is no sun today. It is cold outside. And I can’t stand myself. I need to write.
It’s all a matter of timing. And I need to spit what I can’t digest.
