I’ve been suffering from a bad case of writer’s block recently, though the block’s not the main cause of my literary absence these last several days. The main cause continues to be just being frantically busy. The main cause does contribute, however, to the secondary cause: the absence of opportunity to revel in worlds distinct from my own—worlds generated by reading books, watching movies or just plain talking to other people.
I haven’t exactly read a lot of books, or seen a lot of movies, or talked to a lot of other people lately. The horizon of my concerns has telescoped to the confines of a 297 square meter space, and for all that it affords a beautiful view of the surrounding community with its floor-to-ceiling windows, it doesn’t exactly provide the multiplicity of perspectives so critical to the creative endeavor.
All of which is just a fancy way of saying: I really need to go out again.