stuck.
I like to imagine myself between two doorways. My legs are stooped a little as if to suggest I'm hesitating, inclined towards the one farther from the frame which of course looks more oblong in shape so that it looms. I'm turned to face me — the me in the image and the me as the gaze, so that the pastiche only really seems to work if I think of it this way, fed by some charge between me as I realize I'm looking at myself through some viewfinder that shouldn't exist.
The other doorway is faint. I can see the frame as precise as drawn lines but not much else.
Is the room dim? Depending on the time of day, how urgent it feels, I can imagine myself of two expressions. The one I'm simply there and unbothered. The other I'm shocked in a typical way, mouth and eyes wide. But you can see my face so clearly that it becomes the image.
I had a friend who'd imagine he was addressing a friend in order to make himself of a certain mind whenever he would sit down to write. He offered me some metaphor about whittling down a stick that somehow stuck with me even with how heavy-handed it was. I don't think I write for other people, though.