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free-falling
May. 2nd, 2008 06:49 amCrunch time. I'm over-committed, crushed under the weight of the impossible, paralyzed. I know what I need to be doing. It's in my head. And yet I do all but that which needs to be done, must be done, done now. I distract and idle and look away.
And I have some reason, I suppose. It's all doable. But the transmission between head and product is the fingers– always the fingers– and my muscles and ligaments are failing me. Pain shoots from my index finger, through my arthritic wrist, up to my ear. I can feel the tension, the tugging on my ear, like a malicious three-year-old lurking over my shoulder demanding attention.
It is 7 am. I have an hour an a half to get four pages down on virtual paper. That is it. It doesn't even have to be *good*. Just there. It's just a draft. But if I can't write it, I can't turn in a final paper.
I don't *do* drafts. This is killing me.
And I have some reason, I suppose. It's all doable. But the transmission between head and product is the fingers– always the fingers– and my muscles and ligaments are failing me. Pain shoots from my index finger, through my arthritic wrist, up to my ear. I can feel the tension, the tugging on my ear, like a malicious three-year-old lurking over my shoulder demanding attention.
It is 7 am. I have an hour an a half to get four pages down on virtual paper. That is it. It doesn't even have to be *good*. Just there. It's just a draft. But if I can't write it, I can't turn in a final paper.
I don't *do* drafts. This is killing me.
