I Can't Imagine.

Literally. I feel like my brain has some form of osteoporosis, best described by words like "gnarled" and "wizened." This is not good for a creative writing major. Judy's lovely blog about the story she read hit me in an unexpected way. I noted when I finished reading it that I didn't have the slightest impulse to rush out to Barnes & Noble and get me a copy, which is so uncharacteristic of me that I had to stop and figure out why.

The timing for this whole thing is strange. I just finished my research writing class, and I feel like I rocked it. I'm pleased, but I feel like I should be celebrating - being free and having fun and reading and writing and doing summer and stuff. Part of my paper actually dealt with the issue of beauty. I'm so FOR beauty. Judy's noticings connect; they hit me right between the eyes.

Yet, I can't read. I have dozens of books that sit there and call to me. The dust jacket blurbs alone were so compelling, I had to give the books a spot on my shelves. I try to start one, and it's nothing more than black marks on a page. No life whatsoever. I try to write, and it's the same deal. I have note cards and voice memos and computer files with story ideas that sound really good - that have major potential to me. Should I sit down to type, though, I'm all thumbs.

Am I just tired, or am I afraid? I've identified a couple things that I'm in the middle of grieving - the natural separations and losses and loneliness that come with having a pulse. The crazy thing is, I feel like I'm entering some sort of Jeremiah phase - it's confusing because I feel like all that grief I mentioned in past posts is still waiting for me; that it's going to be so hard and it's going to last forever. But at the same time, the grief tastes like a strange form of love. That in order to love the world, I have to grieve for it -- not just that someone has to grieve for it, but that I have to. That makes no sense, but that's where I'm at. Every time I unfurl the sails of my imagination, I find myself weeping. Not curled up in the fetal position and gnawing on my pillow or anything, not sobbing uncontrollably, but just sitting silent as hours go unnoticed with tears streaming down my face. It freaks me out. It makes me question my mental health. And it's so big, I'm afraid I'll lose myself.

So what's a guy to do? This is not entirely a rhetorical question. While I'm not really looking to be diagnosed or anything (Mandie...), I feel a need for some language around what I'm sensing - or unable to sense. Either that or some psychic crutches...