Baffled

See also: Bewildered, befuddled, bemused

My writing brain has short-circuited. I’m not sure if this is writer’s block, because I’ve never really had it before. At least not like this. I’m like a dog who can’t stop circling before lying down. I can’t settle.

I know what topics I’m circling – my dad’s health, my dog’s health, my mental health. I simply don’t want to write about any of these things right now, though they are pressing so hard against the inside of my skull that my eyes are blurry.

And there’s an entire lobe of my brain (temporal, maybe, where emotion dwells) pulsing with astonishment and disappointment about the state of my country; a big neon sign flashes “does not compute.” Meanwhile, over in the frontal lobe, logic reigns. I see that where we are is predictable with hindsight. The inevitability of fracture and decay cannot be argued. But the fact that those two parts of my brain don’t align is irritating, like nails scratching on a blackboard.     

I would like it all to stop. I hate discomfort. I’m not good with ambiguity. I’ve eaten more chocolate in the last few months than I probably have in my entire life. This is not a very sober coping mechanism. It’s not the worst, but it’s not great. It doesn’t feel very good. But like I said, I’m not willing to take the bait and follow that train of thought tonight.

What if I just wrote around the edges, sort of a pie crust without the filling? Maybe not very satisfying, but promising – hopeful – in a way?