Basically, it is the inner torment of my life.
I am a writer. When words flow from my fingertips, I feel this rush. I feel like for the first time, I am creating something, forming something, being omnipotent (as the washing and vacuuming piles up behind me).
But, then, it all ends. I stop writing. Life gets in the way. I don't know where to turn, and I end up working on the philosophy of that song, "Oh, so lovely sitting absobloominglutely still.... I would never break til spring, crept over the windowsill".... And I do, I find myself sitting, without moving, shunning the outside world, longing to be in my virtual world of make believe, but afraid to cross the divide.
I don't know why I feel this way? Somehow, I should KNOW that when I am writing, I am alive. But, almost like a creepy vine, something stops me from moving ahead. I become afraid, paralysed by it. It takes all my strength to escape the clutches of apathy, and move forward.
So, I have this constant struggle, a fear of failure, of not being good enough, of just not being wise, and it stops me from actually writing. The irony is this, by not doing, I prove to myself that I am a failure, I am not good enough, and I lack wisdom.
Today I promise myself. I will write everyday. No matter what. Whether it is good, bad or indifferent. Surely I can carve out a few minutes from my still-sitting lifestyle to write something. ;)