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I feel tired. I feel old. I feel broken. I feel cold. I feel weak. I feel sad. I feel lost. I feel isolated. I feel a draft from the window in front of me. I feel my shoes pinch. I feel the pressure of my arms against the edge of the desk as I type. I feel my swollen knuckle and the pain it sends into the palm of my hand. I feel less than human. I feel foolish. I feel. You're not supposed to stop. You're supposed to write anything. Nonsense. Babble. Whatever comes into your head so that you don't stop writing until the ten minutes are up. Ten minutes is a long time when you are trying to think of soemthing to say, and so you're not supposed to think. Not thinking is a challenge for me. Here I am sitting still and not typing or writing or whatever you want to call it. I feel the vibrations from the fan inside the computer. The hum is noisy, and it's possible to sense the actual movement inside. Most of the time I don't notice it; I sit here so much that the ambient noise has stopped being consciously processed. Except when I am sitting here silently and trying to not think so that I can write. A minute and a half left and I've got nothing. That's the way it goes with this little practice. Nothing is cheap. You have to do and do and do, and all you have when you're done is the feeling that you've been blathering like an idiot. And you have.
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