It's a familiar sensation. It's impossible for me to engage with myself. By forming anything at all it seems you've already limited yourself spectacularly. Is this who I am, how I want to appear? Does it even matter that I take the time to process and decide, rather than just throw down an irrelevant few lines like a careless gangplank onto a tenuously metaphorical boat of self expression ? Perpetually deadlocked between mind and empty page is a state of mind I'd prefer not to cultivate when I'm simply feeling a little creative. Maybe I've just cultivated a preoccupation with developing a creative process. Fixated on the dream of freely flowing worthwhile nothings. It's like you're pinned between the daunting multitudes that have come before and the clamouring multitudes with nothing to add.

It after this again and again I've almost come to think I'd prefer to simply read and absorb. Until some kind of critical mass is reached and all of a sudden the floodgates open. Maybe this is an entirely necessary stage that I'm simply documenting while other people who've written have simply traversed individually. Perhaps this particular variety falls within some of the well defined parameters of personal experience in a combination not yet encountered. Maybe someone felt this way but without the guilt of taking up space with their ramblings. Maybe introducing definite adverbs rather than pussyfooting around will narrow down this meandering writeup from someone with nothing to say and no one to say it to into something pithy and worthwhile?

Premature self criticism regardless: I guess my aim with writing this (besides being utterly self indulgent) was to spare somehow another's frustration at this phenomenon by describing it. But it seems a little far fetched that it could.