Where am I going with this?

So yeah, I guess if there was ever a conclusion to be made it’s that there isn’t just something I’m doing right. The real clincher is always some far off ideal or technique that for some reason, psychological or conditional, I cannot grasp. But it never feels like I do anything different. My thoughts suggest an advansive strategy, but when the receiver clicks open and background noise blows open and she speaks the bricks start falling into place. This wall. This wall is getting bigger. Even now it’s making restrictions. It’s like it wants to make this difficult. This used to not feel difficult. This was an enjoyable experience for me. To sit with a pen and pad or keyboard, start putting motion and organization into what was tumbling [have they ever left?] through my head. But this wall is making the sofa uncomfortable, and words feel like they’re being forcefully extruded from a hose. Back in the day it would spill out of buckets. It’s the reefer. It has to be. It made writing from an exercise in expression into a menial task, made the boring seem acceptable. The apathetic seem inescapable. But it wasn’t all bad. Whatever it was that made me write; a couple walking down the street, an embarrassing memory, questions of reality and my future and what I expect of myself and what may require more, it turned the volume down on all that. Even if I really nailed something, at the end of the session I felt completion and satisfaction, hours later I would stare in her eyes again, a deep stare, looking beyond the iris, the voice would speak and it’s suddenly like I would do whatever necessary to surrender and retreat to all of her, like it would solve so many problems and answer so many questions and end so many sentences. But reality isn’t there. It isn’t in my words, it’s in the ink and the metal rings and the holes and everything I don’t think. Reality doesn’t take place in here, it only influences it.