I’ve been having problem writing.

And fine, I lied a bit. I still press backspace, but only to correct typos. I shall not erase sentences. I shall not erase sentences. I shall write this post and post it. I shall warn you now that as a result this post might be incoherent.

Will be incoherent.

But this is the truth. I am back to my old habits, if habits mean drowning when I’m alone and wanting to be alone so I can drown. My short story draft lies around somewhere unattended with two thousand and eight hundred something words hanging like

I can’t find a good enough simile to finish that sentence. See? I’m having problem even finishing sentences.

Three nights ago, I cried so much I contemplated calling Chloe. I contemplated calling anyone, just anyone, but I couldn’t. I had my phone open on contacts and my thumb hovering on that green button but I didn’t press the button, I wavered. I cried some more. I thought I should write, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to post it because how could I post something so unbearably sub-par? (I was unbearably sub-par. Everything was, when I cried for no reasons at all.)

In the end, I turned on the voice recorder and spoke. It was incoherent, unstructured, a mess in all sorts of ways. But it is impossible to press backspace when you’re speaking, so I just said what came into my mind, spilled words and mumbles and sobs.

I pressed save.

And now, I will publish this post as a reminder that I did feel better afterwards.