cold air

some kind of writer’s block. I’ve come to realise since leaving school that I am somewhat dependent on creating and producing for my own sanity. a great deal of my self worth is projected upon the quality and quantity of what I create or produce with my time and emotions. 

very little is being made at this point in time. I worry about lacking value in light of not producing anything substantial. trying to rationalise with this strange part of my mind is difficult, though I keep trying. this break has not been chosen by me, though I tell myself I shouldn’t resist it with such frustration. it’s okay to stop. I remind myself I don’t always need to have something to say.

cold mornings - icy. the drive to the markets before sunrise was scary, thick ice on the bends. I drove slowly and though the sun was bright throughout the day, the chill remained. it’s summer in Lewes, as it is in New York, where Nash is finding his feet as I type these words. the air I’m breathing is far colder than his. a funny thought. <<