I can resist everything except temptation

It's no use. I have to blog. I know full well that I should be writing, and I desperately want to write, in a funny kind of way, but it is the trauma of writing that has been preying on my blogmind all day. I blame Rogers, for getting me started, and for his text urging me to be here instead of there. I have resisted so far, but here I am nonetheless, an addict.

I have started the dreadful task, finally. I have put fingers to keyboard and produced new combinations of words about things I have not truly pondered before. But I keep failing, so violently failing, and getting tangled in the web of my thoughts and ideas, and all the things His Voice makes me feel all at once. This Voice is everywhere and nowhere and everything and nothing...it is itself quicksilver, cobweb, dust, particle, and it dances around me, laughing a cruel laugh, as if to say - I am here, and I make you see things, things that are not there, or that might be there, but I will not tell you where they are.

So then I start again. Blank page. Formulate. Systemise. And then I fall at the sheer PAIN of the blank page, so I write words in desperation...Voice; Monster; Queer; Cyborg; Horror; Body; Diva; Death...and try to connect them in a unilinear fashion, to explain them. This is the impasse of the medium: I want to make this Voice, this Music, into words, so that when I tell Them about it They will understand and Know this Voice.

And yet the pain is exacerbated by my own fears that they will not know. Because however hard I try, I suspect my opus will collapse. Its logic, peculiar logic though it may be, will not be theirs. They want Real Things, and Real People, and What Actually Happens. And I cannot give it to them. I won't, since I actually don't care. Or maybe they won't know for a much more likely reason: that I cannot tell them what it is I am trying to tell.

So here I am - corseted, vacuum-packed, shrinkwrapped by my own inability to escape the cycle of complaining about not being able to do something I'm not currently trying to do, and continuing to torment myself by listening to His Voice, looking too directly at the Pleaides he leaves behind him. He says it himself: Make it stop. And I could stop at any time, apart from my dumbass commitment to Them, my inevitable fate. But I can't: it is an addiction, His Voice - now I have started to seek to understand, I must continue to wallow in the vocal quicksand. God it's messy being on a blank page.