self-imposed writer's block

I feel the thickened and softened sludge of my thoughts, murmurs, dreams, and memories fighting, pushing for a voice somewhere in my writing.

Somehow I have adopted the (nasty?) habit of silencing them all, of tucking them away into my palm and holding them with me, instead, never to see the enlightened word. Never to lie at the seat of my creativity, guiding me to form the tonally appropriate narrative, never to be devoted the attention and precision and tenderness of a writer, never to feel the release into the written word which calms and neatens them.

Instead my worst memories, my intensely rich and thematically significant dreams, my most divine realizations and appreciations of beauty...fall into the steep nothingness of an increasingly compacted mind, disappearing, I know, for ever.

Let me try to write down what I want to know and remember the most, what I can cling to in moments of confusion and emptiness, what I might reread in times of loneliness. I need discipline.