Fear.   One can be afraid to write, not wanting to share, for whatever reason.  Sensitivity.  Fear over one's own situation.

Genes.  They do strange things.  They play out live, in real time.  There's less control...

So, if I could tell a story.  The kid at college, whose family goes off in all directions...  Mom wants to be out on her own.  She needs to do something.  Get a life for herself, building it, step by step.  But there's a burden on the son.  She gets emotional.  The kid wants to go back to his old hometown, to his father's apartment, now that he's trying to figure things out for himself.   But his mother starts crying, in tears, can't you just stay for the night...  She needs help.  How many moves.  It's not for the father to do, anymore, and she brought about the split, holds some negative emotions toward him, and for his part, we all could have stayed together and there was money for her to go back to school and all that...

And in the meantime, the kid is going through his own life, the girl from the Upper West Side, him realizing his own peculiar habits, wanting to be literary, but not knowing how, other than to be a kind of rural poet...   Not so organized a battle, anyway.  What color is your parachute...  He feels handcuffed.  His own depressive tendencies, that prevent him from expressing side talents, music, teaching, being social, laughing, girls...  And now, unprepared as he is, how to make a living...


But you can't write any of that easily.  You still can't.  Not even today.  And today there's pretty much a scene of damage to survey.  And no real bright side, no helping hand to help him deal with his old mother now, old.  Getting a little feeble minded.   But still with all her offense honed...

What do you do?  Don't have a career, not really, nothing beyond the most basic, to fall back on.  Which he's already fallen back on, but not so great...

You don't want to write down any of that.  You don't want to share any of that, would you...

Botched it, fucked it all up...    Shame, spread round, every direction.  No matter what you do.

And some crude cross in your pocket, a Byzantine symbol of life's suffering in the every day, in the three dimensions of space and of time.

That's the start of your day.

It's not that bad, jus the way you start off.