Today I want words to flow from my sporadically moving fingertips onto the screen of my falling-apart computer (I'm afraid the screen will completely detach itself in a matter of minutes), but today I'm doing nothing but observing.
People. Objects. Weather. Blank Word documents. The writing of others. Musical movements. Grades.
Today I feel so heavy that moving isn't possible, but I want to move. It has nothing to do with this one Shakespeare essay hanging over my head, but rather with the subtle hints at my inability to do what I feel I need to do to survive. Rather than finding myself encouraged, I'm finding myself flawed and, perhaps, childlike in my attempts to write.