sometimes. i don't want to write. i just want to read. to go inside the mind of another. and unravel it. and learn what drives it. i want to be a secret intruder poring over the words born of someone else's inspiration. sometimes. my own expression does not satisfy me. i need to experience the expression of another. sometimes. my own thought is inspired by the thought of another. by the outpouring of a great mind.
today. i did not want to write. i wanted to sit alone. in silence. and quiet. and read. while drinking tea. and so. i sat. and drank. and while i drank. i read. dostoyevsky. notes from underground. and i read this: i swear to you that to think too much is a disease, a real, actual disease. and i stopped reading. and got to thinking. thinking about thinking. about whether or not it is, in fact, a disease. because. if it is. then i am afflicted by this disease.
i think. too much. i think while i am eating. reading. cooking. writing. driving. exercising. sleeping. even while i am dreaming. i think.
some mornings. i wake up and tell my husband: last night, as i was sleeping but not sleeping, i got to thinking.... and he always smiles at me. and says: princess, don't you know how to relax? but i never tell him. because he already knows. the answer to his question is: no. i don't know how to relax. because. i'm always thinking. and i can't stop.
i am afflicted. by this disease dostoyevsky wrote about. afflicted. infected. obsessed. possessed. and nothing. nothing will cure me.
