I write a lot about love. and a little about sex. And a little about violence. Or maybe it is all colored and narrated with violence.
I’m having trouble writing lately. I think it is partially beacuse of stress. I think that it also has to do with the fact that Love, my main muse, is confounding me lately. I usually understand it completely, am able to remove myself from it and look at it. As though love were a paperweight. I always get it.
I don’t anymore.
My brain’s landscape is changing. Things are shifting. Yesterday, I was talking with a friend, and I said that I don’t want to be in a real relationship ever again. I said it, and I realized that I meant it.
I understand the future, and I am building the appropriate walls. But now I fear this: will these walls completely sever my tie to my muse?
Maybe the answer is to just write more about sex.