Where have you gone? There was a point in my life where I seemed to be brimming over with the stuff and now it seems that was all a fraud. Maybe it wasn't talent, maybe it was youthful egotism. Maybe it wasn't an internal sense of drive and ambition but merely delusions of grandeur from a kid with an overactive imagination.
Now I am enveloped in static clouds of frozen nonsense. I'm too young for a midlife crises, too old for youthful indecision. The drip has hit, I'm stuck. Wordplay comes and goes. Sullivan, Burnham, Nabokov, Dostoevsky... etc. The more I study the greats the less I stack up. I'm missing something.
Maybe I need something really bad to happen to me. Maybe something really good. Maybe I need to shut up and ride out this recession. Maybe I shouldn't let it be a crutch.
Tolstoy told me that the more power you have the less freedom you have. I don't feel very free. I feel constrained by my limited time and resources. I crave independence. I want to succeed or fail. Rise to great heights or go down in a blaze of debt and bankruptcy. Either would make me happy. Ambiguity rots the soul.