On Writer’s Block: I imagine it’s different for everybody, but at the same time it’s something that everybody goes through. Writer’s block is associated with writing, but only a fool would believe that it’s a writing related thing. Writing is an expression—the block of expression is something felt by anybody who explores is capable of exploring expression, and probably something that hits people who refuse to express. Where it comes from, where it goes, nobody really knows. But it exists as we do, and the block itself says much about who we are.

I haven’t written much lately. I can’t talk. Something’s happened.

Cuba was really intense for me, for so many reasons. I put an unimaginable amount of effort into it, starting in January of 2011 when I first had the inspiration to go there. A whole debacle involving visas and restrictions prevented me from going last year, and to be honest, the only reason I moved to New York involved the disappointment of being barred from that country. Oh, and I guess there was that girl I was (and might still be) running from. That’s beside the point. I worked so hard to get there, didn’t give up, wrote a fucking awesome speech, delivered it, killed it, made an international impression, learned a lot, traveled, the whole nine yards. For lack of a better phrase, I pulled it off.

And then I came back numb.

It’s weird, I can’t wrap my head around it, but for some reason I feel like giving up. Something about watching a country try, actually fucking try, and deal with the shit they have to deal with (thanks to countries like my own) made me feel like anything I can do to change the world is pointless, utterly pointless. Perhaps I’m a failure. I’ve always been very existential, and I recognize that you reap what you sow. But what does that mean? Where does the hopelessness stem from?

After the last time I got back from Paris, I passed out in some girl’s bed, woke up, looked at her golden hair sprawled across a pillow, instantly got a Leonard Cohen song stuck in my head and suddenly recognized I was trapped in a Henry Miller novel. When describing my feelings to a friend, they expressed that I was really stuck in a Mike Abu novel. If that’s the case, I’m stuck in a super fucked up book.

Digressions are the sign of writer’s block. There is no structure, no point, just rambling, word after word for no reason. My life has become an endless series of digressions, and it leads me to wonder if I’m broken for good?

Time will tell I guess. Bear with me. I can’t promise to try at this point, but I’ll try to try.

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