I've felt strangely -- or not so strangely -- inhibited of late in writing, both online and offline. I'm not a tortured writer, and while I can sure write some drivel, when it's not drivel, it's because the act of writing is as if I am channeling some greater force. I don't even know what I'm doing when I do it, but there are no tears, no sweat, no need to feel agony or pain or complaint. It's not work. To get there, I don't need to cry or sweat or lift weights or complain, either. I am not a tortured writer, even in any wonderful romantic sense.
I've let some voices from the outside, though, creep into my head and inhibit me. They are stern and dismissive and condescending. They're like siblings who push sensitive buttons. When I texted this to my friend this morning, she texted me back that it was as if I had monkeys in my brain. That's it, exactly. I know what monkey brain is in meditation, but this is different. These guys have taken up residence in my brain -- or I've invited them in to stay. I need to kick them out, send them on their way.
Fly, monkeys! Fly!
