the block of writer

i haven’t posted in a long long while. one would think the arrival of spring, the livening of the world, would inspire me, or at least wake me up. i guess to understand why that isn’t working, one must understand why i usually write.
who hasn’t heard writing is cathartic? really? you haven’t? so writing is cathartic – my specific catharsis is objectifying the emotion/thought i am dealing with, turning it out of me onto paper, and universalizing it – making it less mine. it belongs to the world, the paper, the reader of said paper. if these thoughts disturb the reader, that probably means they disturb me. they are thoughts that i “smile in spite of” in my real life, but in my written life, i focus and draw out. have you ever noticed that when you watch some movie, and someone is shot/stabbed/has a nasty splinter, the moment that hurts the most is the last tiny bit being drawn out? not the first 6 inches of blade, but the last 1/4 inch brings the gasp of pain. it’s a nifty metaphor… let me twist it to my purpose. eh, the thoughts don’t, um, hurt or otherwise maim/pain most of my life… they don’t even color my life. “it’s just a flesh wound!” it’s only in the extracting that they sound so very deadly, and as though they must painfully maim my life. to tie in the reference in the metaphor, it is delusion to think that they don’t pain me, but i’ve found we all have that secret inside that no one knows about, and usually, it’s pained. pain is almost always at the pit of us, driving us forward, or backward, or sideways in an effort to outsmart it.
point being, i’m normal. (HAHAHA) but it doesn’t sound like it when i write. lately, i’ve been trying to write out some particularly painful thoughts – revelations, ruminations, cascading along and trying to tear down the veneer-y facade of “smiling in spite of.” maybe it’s just that i have so much free time in my mind during exercise, and i’m screaming to escape the bodily pain of achy muscles and burning bones, so i revert to emotional pain. like i said, pain, usually at our pit, driving us in some fashion… mine driving me to complete 5 miles, pushing a stroller, up and down hills, and through miry gravel, in less than an hour without actually jogging. much. laugh as you wish, because you can probably do it. but it’s quite an accomplishment to me.
the problem with this ruminating is that it is so specific, so very me, that i can’t seem to universalize it, at least not without giving myself away. it isn’t so much one thing, but the culmination, or to go all math-ey on your asses, the aggregate of experiences, that make up me, that have brought me to this point. it just doesn’t lend itself to generalization. i can’t disown it… it’s bloody mine, bloody hell. and that means, i can’t write it out of me, which means, other than this vague description of the situation, i can’t write about it. i think it’s something about a culmination, the tip, the last 1/4 inch, that screams “ouch, that’s me under there!” i’m lodged there, crying “pull it out! pull it out! wait, no don’t pull it out! don’t! don’t! no. yes. pull it out!” waivering, as i always do. i can’t make it yours. it has to be mine. i have to own it. i have to own up to it.
and that is the block over which this writer is stumbling.