writing, foreplay, reality?

writing.
"...Which is why I am writing this book. To think. To understand. It just happens to be the way I'm made. I have to write things down to feel I fully comprehend them."
--- from Haruki Murakami's "Norwegian Wood."

The same is true of me. I'm not able to write at the moment and it's horrible...

foreplay.
A friend of mine said she continued to have sex during pregnancy, until the final few weeks, when she simply was so full, so hormonal, so done, that she wanted nothing other than the baby to be born. I feel the same. My body is full to bursting (with my book) and all I can bear is a little light foreplay (writing down a paragraph here, a sentence there).

reality.
I am busy losing my grip on reality. What I have perceived as my reality no longer works for me. Why do I say this? I go to places, like my old house, to look for evidence of emotion and find none. Old restaurants disappoint. My friends have moved on. My ears ring with the sound of music from a different place. I can't even fucking wear my clothes anymore: nothing looks like me, nothing makes me feel like me, I hate everything I put on my body. Who I was is gone. Shit. And the old garb, the old ways, are useless.

So, what happens if I let go the iron grip? What happens if I lay down all my weapons, I mean ALL my weapons, and let the cosmos truly have its way with me?

I'll let you know.