It's there. Not always obvious, but it is. It hangs there, right in front of me, tantalising like the Golden Fleece. Fruit to be plucked from a tree. Sometimes I can reach out and take it... and sometimes it just remains where it is - solidly, resolutely intangible. A faint, uneasy smudge in the air. A mistake waiting to be corrected. It floats above me, and it is all I can do to hope to connect with it.
My identity. It eludes me, and it has for a few weeks now. In some moments, it comes to me in stark realisation - rememberance - of who I am. I laugh at something my girlfriend innocuously says that reminds me of soft porn. I scribble keywords into my diary that I think I may be able to spin out into posts of hundreds of words. I spend my time on the bus trying to think of things I may write. I sit in an armchair with the heat beating down on me from outside and drift into half-sleep, feeling my erection grow.
A swirl of memories comes and goes - colours and sound and occasional pictures. Can I mention these? Are they relevant? I don't know. I can't write about Shannan Leigh's growl, or the naked picture my friend send me which turned out to be Photoshopped. Maybe there's something to be said about the album art I used which was a naked photo of myself, or one which is a tracing of a still from a hentai game. Perhaps there's even something to be said about the track I once put together which has a sample in it I recorded from an anal sex animation.
There was a cajón being played on Lorraine this morning. I like the pleasant rumble when sitting on a cajón. There's something sexual, even, in that.
There is a disconnect, you see, between my identity and I. We dance around each other like those circles in the Battery visualisations of Windows Media Player. I am unreasonably busy. I pack clothes; I wash plates. I go through interminable paperwork. Admin. Money. Packing. Walking. Commuting. Music. Packing. Cooking... cleaning... organising... resting. Rest. Rest. Rest.
Reset. Start again. I need to take a shower. I haven't done so for days. I don't have the time. The energy. The wherewithal...
It all escapes me. I know, from experience, that I will get it back. All of it. It comes and it goes, and I know - I'm not that far gone - and I can't wait for The Muse to strike. She is a flighty bitch. I need to push myself forwards. Get myself in order. Rediscover myself and reconnect.
I can do this. I can. I can and I will.
There's too much to do at the moment. But I just wrote this. And, if I can write a post in these times, I can do just about anything.