it’s a funny feeling, being unmotivated to type. it’s not that the words don’t come… it’s just that i can’t coax them out onto the screen. they flood the pages of my notebook these days, but encouraging them elsewhere has been a failure.

or perhaps it is not the words that have been traumatized by the screen, but the areas of my body involved in the cognition of typing. this is, perhaps, how i’ve come to tell myself that what i was doing wasn’t working, what i need to do requires silence and contemplation, and what other people need from me is less important than what i need to develop for myself.

it feels nice to write—it hasn’t always. the dissonance resonates with distant memories about writing in a diary that would never be private. more today than then, the performance of my self expression would seem to be its own resource that i exploit for the pleasure of others—it helps to keep me fed and warm. not always happy, but alive.

is that what this blog is…alive?