June 1, 2018 | N.S. Dezelich | All Rights Reserved.
“My mind only plays at night.”
As I open my journal, my mind draws a blank. Staring at the page in front of me with thoughts that merely doesn’t seem to pour in like they used to. I used to write everyday, but gradually, it became something I no longer was used to. Life.
Sometimes I find myself writing at night more than any other time of the day. That’s when words come diving in like vultures touring the sky, thoughts emanating, slipping through my tongue, squeezing out of my brain, ready to play. As opposed, during the day, sirens, horns, trains and a whole lot of other commotion, transpire through these sheetrock walls—clouding my space (Zundada). Especially, here in New York City, which counteracts with the desire of where I truly prefer to be—far away in a land spread across the countryside. The fact that I have somewhat no actual peace here (even when I’m alone in my comfy little couch with absolutely no one around) drives my mind insane.
Until I wait for the end of the day, when the mysterious blue sky comes steeping in—rendering itself to complete darkness, awhile the moon pokes its way through. Ohhh yasss. It’s the only moment I long for until I can finally unwind; while procrastinating with this ink and pen that stares back at me, as I stare into a blank sheet of paper.
“I don’t write like I used to”
I’m left to feel that defeated emotion in my soul, yearning to feel the passion that once leaked through the pen, divulging these pages. I now have become rigid—brain freeze upon a thoughtless world. Brainstorming……..
I start to look for shelter from my desk space where my computer is placed. Perhaps! by searching for a prompt somewhere online may propel a spark in me and keep my mind available. As I begin to form words, I begin forming phrases. I realize the cursor goes back eradicating each letter per space—ceasing word for word. Why am I deleting? Why can’t I continue with this ugly draft? As I rewind into concentration towards my deviated compulsive thoughts, I remind myself with the realization that writing has never been about “perfecting while drafting“ kind of thing. It’s suppose to be a figured art, pondered and then splurged onto these blank pages, waiting to be contoured at the end.
The cursor had finally come to an end. I then begin to review my draft, filled with erroneous words that form the art of a rough sketch. Ughhh! I could never come to a conclusion. This is not what I want. I change my mind. It’s a never-ending process that stretches across like clockwork. Hence, I return to pro-alteration for the hundredth-time (exaggerating), and still not being content of what I’ll permanently decide to print. Why am I editing excessively, which beats the purpose of an editor. Thank goodness for them, they are truly a writer’s guide. So, I finally close the document application, enclosing this day to a good night sleep.
I know it’s cliché and I hate clichés, but this fits well, “The chronicles of writing.”
N.S. Dezelich 🥀