This is somewhere, this is halfway

What is it about driving down ten-lane highways that makes me want to yank the steering wheel to the left, just a little? It starts, without fail, with a sob that comes from nowhere. A year ago I sobbed in the courtyard; two years ago I dared look at the horizon at the edge of the farm; three years ago I clawed my way up a cliff; and four years ago I flew sky high in the depths of winter. But at least I was writing then.

It occurred to me, staring through tears at peak-hour 101, that I have to look this monster in the eye. This curse. This is something I have to fight, all alone. I am tired of the deadened phrases that come out in documents and proposals. Even writing this is laboured. Emotions pushed down. Senses dulled twice-daily. Nothing comes naturally anymore. And no rhyme or reason, no thing or man, can pull me out of this rut. It's my fight, all alone. Because times change, and people change, at a pace I can neither stop nor control.

It has been almost four years since I wrote:

I have to stop dreaming in words and writing backwards, so I will flip the notebook upside down and back to front instead and write from this end, until I am ready and brave enough to meet up with the past, somewhere halfway.

I have run out of time. I reached the middle of the book and kept on not dreaming. I haven't been ready, and I'm never brave enough. I am forever the status quo. And I'm scared of all the decisions I make in my rare moments of lucidity, because when things are dull again, where would I be?

But for this moment, this one right here. I will write. I will meet the past. No carefully worded drafts, no revisions and deletions. Clear away the filters and fuck fancy words. Once a week, once a day, maybe even twice if I have to. At times it will be ugly. Other times it will be rubbish. But I can no longer sit idle and wait for the words to find me.