All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy--I remember watching "The Shining" as a teenager, and being utterly dumbfounded that anyone could actually write about 400 or 500 typewritten pages of the same line over and over.  My mind was, and when healthy, is, abundantly teeming  with ideas and subjects on which to write.  In fact, because of the idiosyncratic way in which my mind thinks--I think in images and then script the images with mental verbal writing, which just flows in my head, and when I have a writing instrument, flows through the pen or keyboard, I normally am constantly writing in my head, and enjoy the opportunity to put the mental writing into a physical medium.  I like to write just to see my ideas in physical form on the page.  Since my incarceration, it has been a real hardship to exercise self-censorship in my writing, knowing as I know that I have very real enemies (yes that includes you Martin; that also includes SLI, Opus Dei and their minions, including Denise Shepherd, as well as anybody else who would try to force me to be someone I do not choose to be CONSCIOUSLY.  I don't care what goes on in me unconsciously, however evil or holy;  the unconscious manifests itself when the conscious self is ready for it, when the conscious self CHOOSES to embrace it--not when it is shoved down your throat with drugs and abuse.  No one, not even a parent with a child has the right to deny anyone the freedom to choose their own conscious self of expression and life, and yet that is what I have endured for the last ten years, and still it is ongoing). 

 Now, however, with the psychotropic drugs I have a much more serious problem.  I cannot write at all.   Whenever I sit down to try to write, I no longer have the natural mental scripting going on in my head.  I can still see the images, but the concurrent, ongoing verbal "talk" that accompanies the images is absent, and it makes it impossible for the images to manifes themselves more accurately and maturely in communicable form.  I am left with a pen or keyboard, and the only words that go through my head are "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

I haven't written any Christmas cards this year, partly because I am so separated from any emotions, and partly because I cannot write.  I always try to write something inspiritional, helpful, and sincere in my cards tomy family, but now I am completely stymied.  As is the case with my entire drugged life right now, I cannot find the words to fit the images.  I can "see" the images that I want (especially) to relate to my niece and nephew, but the words aren't there, and don't come.  How am I ever going to send them a Christmas card?  I feel obligated.  I just can't ignore them, like I do in other social relations and settings (in a drugged state, I am not capable of relating to others, so I just avoid them--it is too anxiety provoking to relate to people when the images in my head have no words to express or share).

So even though both my niece and nephew have had a momentous year in their life, their aunt can offer no words to them:

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jaack a dull boy.

...I can't go on for 400 pages--my back spasms too much at the typewriter, and my arm muscles are too weaked by the drugs to type for long...