It’s a new week. I’m home alone and it’s a dour morning.

And I’m back to black. My chest feels narrow, the plum-sized mass lodged there is inhibiting my motivation. I got up early this morning and sat in my reclining chair by my bed to set in motion a new routine. For the past two weeks, I’ve lost my energy, motivation, and joy. I’ve barely written anything in my blogs, journal, or film work. I’ve languishing in my dark escape valves.  So, I’m going to sit in my chair twice a day, morning and evening, to write about anything or something. Even if I have nothing to say, which is hurtful enough given I left England to become a writer, I’ll sit here until something comes.

The one hurtful fact raping my thoughts is that I do have a lot to write about. My mind never sleeps from finding, compositing, generating, and unearthing ideas, based on what I see and hear. I have writing projects from years ago. I’ve come up with so many concepts since I’ve been here. Yet, I’m unable to pursue them. Please meet the second faceless fact-individual this mental gangbang. All I know is that when I have to fend off negativity and constantly explain myself in terms of my calling and future, I get tired. And when I’m tired, I can no longer write.

That plum-sized mass lodged in my chest must be a sign, an end to the gangbang. Can hear the beltbuckles rustling as they get dressed to leave and I’m lying numb.

I’m watching quarterlife, this new on-line series. I stumbled upon it today while looking for something on youtube and as I watch it, it becomes frightfully relevant.

The main character and narrator is Dylan, a writer stuck in a deadend editorial position, who blogs about her thoughts, life, and friends.

In this episode I’m watching as I push myself to write this post, she says, “You said to write whenever something moves me…. I’m sorry, it’s like a fetish…”

I’m so envious of Dylan. She writes at ease and in volumes. I don’t agree with her, I don’t think you’re chained to writing to the point that you can’t defer to a higher set of principles like your moral code or conscience. But, I won’t get too moralistic on Dylan, I mean, she’s writing and I’m not.

I relate to Jed, the tortured artist. The one who falls in love with the girl who’s either taken or doesn’t return the feelings. I don’t want to be that tortured artist. But it seems to me that I am. My torture comes from thoughts of grandeur revealing themselves to me and then when they disappear, all I see is my inability to make them happen.

I thought the first sign of being pretentious and doomed to failure (which in this business equates to being ignored and humoured)  is when you think or are tortured in your pursuit of your art.

I don’t know if I will ever make it to first base should things continue this way. I will fail and I won’t be able to show my face to anyone. Then my family will be right and I will sink deeper into myself until I die.

I fear I will fail. I fear I will never complete any project. I fear I will never amount to anything.

It’s 10 to 10 in the morning and I’ve just written something for my morning exercise.

Well… I’ve achieved something.