Let Me Be The One Who Calls You Baby…

It has been fourteen days since I got a note.  It has been nine days since I wrote an entry.

I wouldn’t know what to write here if I tried, but I’ll pretend to try.

I can tell you that everything is good with Erik, because that’s the truth.  So I’ll tell you: everything with Erik is good.

I just finished watching Lost in Translation.  It’s stupid how much this movie makes me want to cry.

I still don’t know what to write.

I could get crass, or sassy, and write like Brent about girls in Lululemon pants, and roommates that you kick out who – several months later – have still not moved out.

I could write like Mike, but all he writes are one-liner entries, usually containing the word "fuck," or complaining about something, or contemplating something.

I could write like Emily, random, spastic entries that usually have no flow, no continuity, but are explicitly beautiful in their own shocking way.

I can’t write lately.  Anything.  I can’t bring myself to jot down the quotes I see or hear or remember, I can’t get out a choppy poem for the life of me, and I obviously can’t write a diary entry anymore.  It makes me sadder than you can imagine, not being able to figure out how or what to write.

I used to be able to turn to a pen and notebook and scribble for hours.  I used to open up Word and fill a page in a matter of 6 minutes.  Granted, neither of those efforts (if often, or ever) resulted in anything worth being on paper or in a file.  But I’ve got a sheaf of papers with only poetry on them all the way back to 2003, and over 300 pages of stories I started writing but hit a wall on.  I’ve got entries in here with poems I never wrote down on paper because they poured out too fast while I was writing in here that I never got a chance or remembered to scribble them out.

Not being able to write feels like losing a part of me.  It’s a really small part, but at the same time, it’s huge.  There’s something empty about not being able to write like I used to.

Sometimes, I get flashes of lines of poetry that sound really great, the start of something big, but then I don’t have paper or a pen or both, and it disappears as quickly as it appeared.

Anyways.  I should go.  I’m getting all sappy listening to "Smother Me" by the Used.  This is a great album, by the way.  Not what I expected from them, but SO good.

– smother me – the used –