Impotence
The restlessness is what infuriates me most, the knowledge that it's a matter of time, perhaps, and that this feeling will pass as all feelings do; that in a week or whenever this dull pressure at my throat finally drifts away I'll be back to holding the pen in my hand as I always have. So it's a matter of waiting, of knowing that in the meantime the cuts from my knife are as impotent as the man who wields it. And here I stand, waiting and restless, like a turtle on his back, unable even to right himself.
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tseulik) wrote,
