Learning to write all over again

I'm feeling like something of a lazy dunce.

I haven't written anything of true substance in such a very, very long time.
It's as if I've turned away from a part of myself with whom I find little in common at the moment.

I do not like this.
I do not want this.
And yet here I am, in this very place I neither enjoy nor desire.

I'm so tired of being in such places.
I used to find them in cars, en route to parents' houses, in bars near whiny juke boxes, and on tables, in front of people who do not understand the needful dissolving of classism.

I feel faint at the thought of just how much I have yet to record and yet perhaps all of that possibility will act as fuel for a continued future effort.

I have so much to say and so much to hide.
And yet I wish to tear away the curtain.