Compostela

I've tried writing almost 20 entries in the last two weeks that I haven't been able to finish. Some thought process will start, some notion of what I want to say, and something halting will come between the beginning and the end. As a result, 17 beguiling posts sit in my "Edit Posts" column; nearly all of them are stopped mid sentence, even, as opposed to mid entry or mid paragraph.

Sometimes I can't say what I want to say in a way that I like.

Sometimes I can't easily articulate my thoughts into a cohesive flow.

And sometimes ... many times ... I just can't figure out what I even want to say.

Of course the importance of writing isn't necessarily finishing, but the attempt. I know that. And insomuch as the attempt is being made, I suppose I should be content. It feels like I've lost my words, outside of posting those of others or quipping about workplace idiocy or mentioning some exterior event going on. Maybe that's best for now.

It's just sort of a shame ... I was thinking in the car today that I love summer for its inspiration. These three months are the season when I usually feel most invigorated and motivated to explore music, writing, and reading in ways that I can't during the year. In a little over a month, time will shrink back to its normal size, and the race will start anew.

I hope I can maybe sort through what's happening now and rediscover a way to communicate. It's not the lack of communication with others I fear most, really- that always comes in time- but it's my inability to communicate with myself. It's a lonely feeling in a way I've never experienced before.

On the plus side ... I just finished this post.

Goodnight.