Writer's block?

I was sorting through some stuff in my room and starting to move it out of my apartment. The lease is going to be up June 1st. Our power is out and probably will be until then. Necessities("necessities"?) get thrown by the wayside in favor of cravings and impulse and white flagging. I got so caught up on knowing and thinking of my"self" as a recovered addict that I didn't see the danger right in front of my nose and realize that I still was/am one! Thinking of myself in a concrete way has never failed to limit me. Back at square one and picking up the pieces. Getting used to having someone close by that I cannot fool, that sees me and calls it as such, that does not allow me to lie to myself, that shook me out of my zombified self deception and illusion. Hurting you is hurting myself. There is no difference! And you are a mirror. And everyone is. And everything is.

I'm learning over and over that simplicity is the ultimate form of sophistication. Sitting in grass at a park can be an invaluable lesson in life and death, in impermanence and ever-changing form and life and death coexisting and fueling each other.

I came across a few notebooks in my room. I have a good stack of them dating back to age 18. I can read them and be transported to those times. My old writing seems to be primarily done while in extreme states of mind whether they be inspiration or despair, or written after the accidental ingestion of some crazy drug, detailing what I would later come to know as "depersonalization".

The question is, do I spend time immersing in past journal entries for how fascinating they are in relation to my journey as a whole? Do I want to see how many ideas I've started and not finished including a fiction novel that might have even been pretty cool had I written more than a few pages? Do I  keep these books or toss them? I'd like to have as little of a "self" as possible and I feel that these nostalgic items only add to it. Maybe it's good being reminded of how intensely I, you, the world, foliage, and everything else under and above the sun, changes. I'll give these books a once over and put them in a box somewhere. Maybe these realizations can lessen my self.

And irony is, smoking an entire pack of Marlboro reds in a smoke free hotel room at age 16 and working in a hotel 7 years later to face the stress of being scheduled for full capacity and one of the rooms being smoked in to the point of being un-rentable.

Irony is the sinking helplessness felt when a loved one is poisoning themselves with substances the way many have had to see me do, knowing and respecting that I had to figure it out on my own.

And irony is wanting to know someone so badly that I had to wait until I didn't want it as bad to get a chance.

And irony is wanting to paint something so magnificent that I cannot even pick up my brush.

Ideas currently being held in mind and pondered: The concept of pondering(and searching for a balance between all out constant analyzing and casual mind-play). Not about building up love within myself but searching for and breaking down the barriers I have built up against it. Thank you Rumi.