Life less chaotic

I've decided to read previous posts for some inspiration. Some kind of road

map back to where I was mentally when I was able to post multiple times a day about a variety of subject matters. I haven't found anything yet.

This kind of thing happens fairly often. I look back at what I did over a

certain timeframe and I wonder why I'm unable to replicate it. Why can't I write poetry and get published like I used to be able to? Why is it that when I try to think of something to post about my mind goes blank? Many have suggested that this has something to do with where my mind is, where it floats isn't on the subject matter that I'm attempting to write about. Instead, removed from body over soy or corn fields, or jockeying for my place in line at a deli, congested coughing surrounding me. Lingering breath and all. I seem to think that's the problem, but when I attempt to form something about where ever my mind is I'm naked on a subway car, moving without applying myself, or sustained on a acoustic guitar, sitting on a bar stool in front of about twelve college students sipping faux blended coffees and teas.

Is it never so easy to get back to the form you once had or the unwillingness

to try? Or even the idea that perhaps I don't want to change back. Associations with different negative events lined up to get into a movie that I don't want to see with my undershirt sticking to my back would explain some of it but not all. With a focus on those negative things, without releasing them in a creek or river or landmass other than this, they labor on and on, and linger without stopping. That may just be the real issue. The inability to let go over mistakes and regrets and lost time laying on my make-shift bed in a wedge room in a futile conversation. Those are the days I wish I could blow away. I'm not accustomed to it though, releasing. I've always been more concerned with squirreling away as if for the apocalypse or a flood; which, at this point, doesn't seem all that impossible. There's always a day when it all just runs out and spills over onto the tiny creatures building castles on the shore. I'm wondering when that day will be for me. When I can let go, and be that boring guy sitting in a overstuffed red armchair, in front of a fireplace or open window and let the sounds of the city provide far less a distraction than other things as I read a book?

I suppose that's less of a rudimentary question. Nearly tipping into the ideas

of who we are and how we shape ourselves. And that'll require another post. Another point where I'm calmly sitting here, thinking about eagle statues guarding gardens surrounded by broken red clay chips. Who knows when that will be?