When I don’t write for a while, I feel as though I’ve lost a part of myself. And it’s true. If I don’t write something, it’s gone. I can write about the same thing another time, but never in exactly the same way. I started thinking about how lots of things are like that: poems, photographs, paintings. And then I realized, all of life is like that. Which I guess is where all that carpe diem, dance like no one thinks you’re a crazy person, time is ticking crap comes from. My life has now become a sappy Hallmark greeting card.
When things are busy and I don’t have time to process my thoughts, much less write them down, I get weighed down and I panic a little, because I know I can’t keep it all until I can write it down and every day that goes by and I don’t write, the more I lose. A little bit at a time. It’s like to do lists. You write stuff on the list and you don’t have to carry it around in your head anymore. Which is great unless you’re me and you don’t look at your to do list for three weeks when everything is too late to do and then you panic and beat yourself up for being forgetful and irresponsible and you don’t stop to realize that you’re not the problem, the damn list is! The list is evil! It sucks the useful memory from your brain and puts it all somewhere that you never find it again. But possibly I’m digressing here.
The point is, well maybe I don’t have a point except that I need to forcibly wrench away some time in the day for me or the entire day goes by and I’ve been running around doing who knows what until it’s the next day and the next day and I haven’t stopped to take a breath. Or write. Or figure out where I want to go. I’m just the passenger on some Mr. Toad-style ride, which is cool until you start feeling a little sick and wish Mr. Toad would slow down already. I might be digressing again. There’s not really a toad who drives.
At least I don’t think there is. Although that might explain a lot.