I opened this page to write and then did nothing but stare at the blank page. Ideas are there, I can feel them, but the ability to bring coherence to them continues to elude me. My thoughts are scrambled, directionless, lacking. I thought I was less confused when I opened the page, but I was wrong.
This is one of the many things about The Black that’s so hard to explain to someone who hasn’t had the experience. I’m an intelligent, articulate and witty person. I take pride in my use of language and my ability to spell. I say this not to boast, but to create a base to show the extent to which The Black degrades me. My thinking is slow, ponderous and dull. Wit is beyond me. Spelling is a challenge – I fumble at the keys, almost as if I’m hitting them at random rather than with planned design – and actual words, well they appear, but not with the ease that they should.
Should. That’s a dangerous word to someone like me. I should be able to write and think and express myself clearly. I should be able to type a four letter word without having to use the backspace or delete keys. But, the fact is, I can’t, at least not right now and not with the same fluidity.
That I can’t brings frustration. Frustration brings more fumbling, and the cycle continues.
So I pause. I breathe and I gather myself. I can do this. If I persevere, if I accept my limitations, I can commit my thoughts, I can bring order to them, and I will find myself writing. To do otherwise is to allow The Black its victory and I won’t give it that.