He was not completely unconscious, however, all the time he was ill; he was in a feverish state, sometime delirious, sometimes half conscious. He remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though there were a number of people round him; they wanted to take him away somewhere, there was a great deal of squabbling and discussing about him. Then he would be alone in the room...he fancied he had lying there a month; at times it all seemed part of the day.  But of that--of that he had no recollection and yet every minute he felt that he forgotten something he ought to remember. He worried and tormented himself trying to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank into awful, intolerable terror.

-Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment

The past two weeks have been a muddled myriad of thoughts, emotions, and ideas swirling and twirling about inside my head, and yet, have had such a difficulty in articulating this expression. Training camps, block parties, box socials, the list trickles off my tongue; still, it all becomes a faint dream of what happened. You visit the past, even the most recent past, yesterday, and are unable to fully actualize and articulate much of what has transpired. 

It almost seemed as though I lost my vocal, written expression. Similar to waking up from a dream, trying to gather and dissect these concepts, seemed vague, uninteresting, and unnatural. Gathering the imagery and actions upon waking from a dream, are honestly, one of the most difficult exercises one can experience. You are always left wondering what actually happened. Almost impossible, is pinpointing the exact start of the dream, how it came to be. Frankly, this is how my thought-process has felt over this past two weeks.

I was left with where do I start? Where can I begin? Are the details of my plot or concept convincing enough? Simply, are they are organic? Are they me?

Far too often, I find myself arguing with myself, over the chemistry in my writing. And frequently, over the creativity and purpose of each concept/idea. It is as if I am unsatisfied with what I am scribbling down on paper or typing upon my computer. 

Finally, I can say I am ready to write, yet again.