I say "form' to myself, repeatedly crossing that threshold. Exhaustion renders blank what might lie in front of me. I maintain that I am being denied a result, a thought, a product.
Even effort is a kind of ghost, or a too-difficult assemblage of parts and timing. I am not critic enough to lead myself to the woodpile. Instead, I limp from self to self, each permutation having just vanished, often while making a point.
Worst of all are the dozens of people that surround you, and you having nothing to say. They run on and on, much of it quite convincing. You can stop no one, you can say nothing. I tumble from task to task, causing no harm.
If I demonstrate, I am caught. I cannot retire. I cannot rest in my sleep.
You do not write. Your brain and body write. You are represented by a name you put to things you cannot do. What do I call you now?