There was a time when writing somehow put me in touch with the knowledge and feeling of being alive.
In the current moment, however, it seems to work in the opposite way: every moment I spend writing is a reminder of my impending death, the finiteness of my existence. I’m trapped in a painful vortex, generating writing ideas but unable to develop or pursue any of them. It’s as if pursuing a writing idea means losing the possibility of exploring any other idea.
Consequently, I’m stuck in paralysis, self-denigrating and chastising myself for my stasis.