Habit, meet Foot
My every passing second is filled with the thought, "Damn. I really want a cigarette." I've been a smoker for five years, now, and I've realized that it's time to say fare thee well to the addictive little buggers. It seems so easy, when I'm laying in bed, considering it each night.
The next day, however, proves miserable.
Jan Siegel's Prospero's Children revealed its tale to be a tragedy more tragic than any I've ever read. Not that I spend much of my time delving into the musty pages of Shakespeare, anymore. But the last page did cause my heart to clench and cry out for the mermaid, the fated soul lost at sea, and the young hero who would complete a vicious cycle by making the ultimate sacrifice.
If I could believe in alternate realities and fanciful dimensions, then I could take comfort that in another word, I'm probably not stagnant and constantly afraid. However, I don't, so I suppose I'll just have to cling desperately to my imagination.
I really need to add more to The Story, continue writing, pick up speed, finish the tale... but I find myself simply lazy and unwilling despite an open vault of stacks of pages written in the ink of the imagination. Is this what it feels like to be in bed with a beautiful woman, only to discover that suddenly--you're impotent?