I have things to say – or think I do – but as I sit down on the bench in the garden with my notebook or take my seat at the computer I split in two, watch myself as I start writing, formalize the act, and the moment of inspiration recedes until I’m left with – what? Writing about my failure to write.
I sit on the sofa beside Rookie with a book, read a line that makes me stare into space, return to it and stare into space again. My thoughts roam around some just-out-of-reach thought or feeling (or memory of a thought or feeling) and peter out until I realize I’m gazing at nothing, thinking about nothing. I get annoyed at myself, return to the line, force myself to read a few more but can’t take them in. I reach out to pet Rookie. He stands, stretches and hops off the sofa.
But the restful thought remains that there’s no real progress to be made, or that progress is a continual return from distraction to attention.