Some inner part of my brain does. Literally. I may decide I'm going to do something, but if that one little section of said brain don't agree...it don't happen. I want to go out for a nice dinner? No way. Get sidetracked on this or that instead. Read a book? Forget it. You need to do research online. Stupid things like that.
Therefore -- I spent the last few days writing a short story instead of letting my batteries recharge, as I intended...and it drained me. Last night night I finished a first draft...a very rough first draft, 4400 words...of a little piece titled "Desert Land" and when I was done I felt a bit crazed, both emotionally and physically. Like I'd been punched in the chest. I may have been on the verge of a panic attack or something because it was nearly 11pm and I was pacing the floor. I wound up putting on some Enigma and turning out the lights and just letting the music take over. I've never had that sensation, before...and honestly don't want to, again.
Of course, it's a pretty intense little story...and I honestly don't know if I'll be able to share it with the world. I used the worst year of my life as its basis -- the year I spent in El Paso, Texas which built up such a hatred of that city, I will not stop there when I drive between LA and San Antonio. One year I even went the I-40 route, to the north to avoid it. So I still have to think about this. And think. And think.
What's even funnier is, I'd intended to write about this time in boy scouts when I was 12 and stupidly gave the assistant scout master a compliment in front of the other guys. I wasn't in scouts much longer, mostly at their request...though to be honest, I was just about to have to go up for my swimming merit badge so I could advance to Scout First Class, and I can't swim. Still can't. So maybe I was already backing away from it all.
That's me...backing through life.