composition no. 7
I told myself I wouldn't write anymore. I don't think I told many other people that, maybe about two or three people max. I wasn't ready to go public with such a claim, and instead I hoped my persistent silence would have done all the announcing for me. It was difficult to even admit to myself , that I was sick of the practice, that perhaps the reason the blogs I had made were growing increasingly experimental and self-reflexive was because I couldn't write without becoming painfully-- palpably -- aware of all the parts of writing I feel stifled by. (The impulse in my head telling me " by which I feel stifled " is one of them. My voice is careful and exact, thank you very much, and I will bend whatever grammatical limits I please if it means I can express myself more accurately. " Grammatical rules, not limits ," they're limits more than they're rules, this is English, dammit.) Honestly, I'm even kinda sick of starting these posts off w