I am thinking of what I can do which might help me to focus, but that sort of thinking rarely grants me focus. That sort of thinking is a kind of signal which I may or may not heed, so I write here hoping this activity will bring me to the heeding point in a style of recognition and understanding. Bear with me.
Wanting to live for and in the future - yet I have no exact idea what that means. Perhaps I am repeating myself in my moods. That would explain the semblance of a page, a blank page, day after day. I think this, and feel a spark of recognition and understanding. But that is all. I do not experience decision-making. I am not often excited by decisions. They seem all alike, being the occasions of a person's literal being making notes upon a will. I am not arguing for non-action though. I am simply not arguing.
This goes on for awhile until I move as if motivated by a basic need to move - uncontrollably, I tell myself. And I write. I do not trust it. I do not trust a person who cannot live as they should live when the means are in their reach. Here, weekend after weekend, I encounter the blank page and wallow and retire and sleep. Being merely capable is not enough for me to work. I must be over-capable. So charged with rest that I cannot stay in bed.
I think of distractions. One change I made recently was to pare down the intensity and frequency of my workouts during the week, which were at times exhausting me so that I would need two days to recover. Then, there are politics and social-networking - which are largely one and the same thing. I think I will do this week what I did two weeks ago with my workouts, which is to promise myself to cut back.
This is beginning to create a kind of sense. Here I sit, writing. I may write a poem. I then will turn the computer off, or at rate avoid the news, the politics, and the networking for the entire remainder of the day. Tomorrow morning I go to the computer last having written on it. What will be my expectations? They may first be to write. That after all is what I am missing. The expectation, the lead into the act. I have acquired a habit of responding, relaying, playing to a subject. That is politics, not poetry as I understand poetry or must, being the manner in which I write it.