I have been writing in my head for days. Sketching words, diagramming sentences, constructing paragraphs in my mind. Every time I consider committing these thoughts to paper something freezes inside me. That spark of fear ignites which constricts my throat and tightens my muscles, until I think later, I’ll do it later and I can breathe again. There is always later.

And so I write piecemeal, as always. Taking breaks – playing pointless digitised card games and smoking endless cigarettes – because that’s the only way I can, and I’ll go crazy if I don’t.

I have had to conclude that the what is not important – the writing itself is the thing. That process which I must endure in order to commit thoughts to paper. I must practice. I must repeat and repeat until it becomes easy, or at least a habit. I am good at habits, after all.