Writing becomes a proverbial pain. If there is anything to learn from this, procrastination is never a good thing. Putting the things that matter until the last moments does leave with it no other room but completion, but when it comes to nonstop writing, I’m pretty sure there are limits in how much you can take before your brain starts leaking from your ears.
Of course, I don’t have the luxury of skimming through the words pretending I understand them when I don’t. With what I’m doing, it’s a little more than just stringing a couple of words together hoping that it’ll pass off as a legitimate sentence. That of course presents itself with a bit of a problem.
To that end, whatever creativity left to express myself right here and now had disappeared as fast as the tidbits of junkfood I stockpile on my desk. The only thing that’s left are the piles of journal articles that litter the floor like some carpeted meshwork which I can’t walk upon. Piles of paper I have to sift through everytime I need to look for something. Tedious, but again, I don’t have a choice.
What I can expect from all this is that it’ll have given way to a more practical task within a week. I suppose in that I should be thankful for. But until then, all I can do is keep writing, word for word, until it’s lost all meaning altogether.
Then I know I’m really screwed.