Not Writing

Instead of writing I am cutting up potatoes. Washing them first paragraph, over the sink and then peeling them wet. Before I had ever peeled a potato, we would sing a song about the woman who lived downstairs peeling potatoes with her big toes or something like that. Cutting them into chunks they feel more like an apple than I've ever noticed before and I think apple of the ground and make that connection happily and leave it there. Before I had ever peeled a potato, I had stories coming out of my ears. The chunks I made are all different shapes. Instead of writing I am creating irregularities. Sheila Sheila potato peeler picks her nose with her big toes. Claudia's new girlfriend said in front of the fire in the garden that she has no internal monologue. The first couple of times I didn't like her and then she started to feel okay, but she ruined it with that one. I wanted to embarrass myself and ask her enough questions to prove her wrong. I said so what no thoughts? She laughed head empty. I'd had enough. It was after that, or if it wasn't it was in this structure, that I was sick in my mouth. Claudia waited in the hallway while I brushed my teeth. I said I want her to be a liar. I said I hate to think that there is another option. Claudia said she thinks in mind maps and that is bullshit. Everything I don't write stays there. I can't imagine what a mind map would look like. It makes me angry that people can live literally. It makes me angry that Claudia studies marketing and wants to make money and that her girlfriend will never write her inside her head which is just as important. It all goes but it stays there, and I am angry that I can't remember everything that has ever occurred to me. At the moment I see bits of my childhood all the time but that might just be that I have never been so far away from it. I remember flashes of dreams I dreamt years ago. The last thing I wrote was good apparently but that was last year so that isn't even mine anymore. I remember whole days I don't need. I remember the t-shirt I was wearing. I don't remember the bit that sounds so write when I am walking. I tried to use the voice recorder on my phone months ago on the front step and this is all it took from me. 'Tell me want what'.   Al Jones. I am an English Literature student from the University of Sussex. I live in Brighton with my friends and a ghost called J. Mort.