It seems the only thing I really do here is sleep. I’m being eaten by my bed every time I get near it for it to grab me in its arms and hold me close. I’m always in my bed and I just lie there. Since I’m horrendously addicted to writing micro-poems as of the moment, I’m usually just in bed thinking up of poems that I can fit into a hundred and forty characters that I can fit into Twitter, reading my poetry books that I’ve stacked up on the end table beside my bed, or falling asleep.
It’s also the lack of access to Internet. I have to pick up my laptop (and all of my notes and tertiary support gadgets) to my Dad’s room to make use of the Internet there (that’s not on wifi but attached with a LAN cable) and it’s quite a production number. I have to move things around to make space for me to work and, when I’m done, I have to put everything back. It’s just too much work and his work table is designed to his specifications and not mine. His room is dark and with barely any sunlight.
I’ve gotten very inflexible in my older age. I’ve become spoiled as a writer; needing my own space.
And it’s Bacolod: the way it just saps my energy and everything moves at such a slow pace; it’s contagious.
There are things I want to do, things I need to write. I feel rested. I feel ready. I want to work. I just can’t. Not here. This is not what I was expecting. I feel awful for being so spoiled; for being such a bratty writer, insisting on so much just to be able to write.
And I don’t believe in writer’s block. That’s not what this is. This is… lethargy? Is this home? I don’t know what this is. It always happens when I come here. I should never even deign to think that I can get work done when I’m here.
Sleep. That’s what I’ve been doing a lot of. I’ve been getting a lot of sleep; and eating. There’s a whole lot of eating getting done here. And a couple of micro-poems. But there is a bigger prize to be won. Now if I can just get out of bed.