Because too exacting. What exactly is it that prevents me from writing? With the light on?
I can compose melodramas in the dark. Whole styles and speeches. It is not because i am confronted with things. Things are lighted and revealed in all their tawdry glory.
I'm confronted with myself, maybe? It's too much like daylight; with all the associations of routine and duty. Everything is revealed anew when the light is snapped on; all the ill-used objects, broken paraphernalia that i have invested exhausted hopes in, my old shoes, now battered and hurricane-torn, falling apart, broken bits of cardboard, palletes speckled with useless globules of paint, strangely beautiful but over-familiar.