The writerly space

Today I cannot wedge myself into the writerly space. It's claustrophobic and surreal to begin with, but if I want to get any clarity of vision or hear the concentrated sounds of reality then I need to get inside. Some days are easier than others. Some days I wake up already feeling the familiar crystal hum and knowing I can pick up the resonances. Today I feel squished and ungainly, pressing and struggling to little avail.

Then there are days when the whole bell jar traps you like a spider. It is disorienting and frightening. Death can do this. 

There are days when the glass is beveled and beautiful, shimmering with rainbows. 

Sometimes it is oddly comforting to have the restricted breathing and fogging warmth of an enclosed space.

I cannot live in the writerly glass jar. It is not an inhabitable space. To be inside the crystal glass is to be separated from others. Writing is, despite being a communicative art, inherently lonely. Reading is the response to the loneliness.