all of a sudden, i am yearning to start writing again. after years of first putting it aside and then just tossing out the sunday book review along with all the advertising circulars, i am reading it again.
i am aching to exercise that writing muscle. that excursion into the far reaches of a character's emotion, that tight-rope walk between communication and preciousness. the desire to tell stories.
is it my new home, a sort of cave in itself, where the windows let in light but conceal the world? the quiet invites a journey inward.
or the exhausting ordeal i dragged myself through in the past year: no work, hub and excitement of the advertising industry receding: no money to shop and go out, the material world stepping away from me as well; no real romantic partners, the pleasures of the flesh and the emotional struggles of communication giving way to an unencumbered soul, a consciousness set adrift.
i feel unmoored and shapeless - as if my soul has come loose from my body - an amorphic presence uncontained in this form of a middle-aged woman.
i am not me.
the rich sensual tapestry of physical experience throws itself down like a carpet at my feet. where do i step first?