What happens now...

Writing, the simple act of taking my laptop out on the town or, travelling, always with a pen and a notebook, has often been my refuge.
Words arrive in my head and stay with me like mosaic tiles, shining in their individuality and waiting to be part of a whole, on numerous occasions I have carried sentence fragments in my head or on the tip of my tongue for years, before knowing where the "whole" is that they fit into.
I have written in bars and on transatlantic flights, written on all manner of public transport all over the world...
So, here's the question- Why then, when I have the time and the space and the emotional support to tell my stories, to play with words in a way that I don't often have in my life and which may in fact be fleeting, do I have such a hard time actually making the time to write?
It is not writers block, it isn't fear.
It is a and expectation I have of myself, a series of would haves and should haves that of course I would love to be immune to but, again of course, am not.
So my words chase their own tales and wait.
I suppose I wait too.
I wait for daily inspiration.
I wait until I can hear the voice in my head that says, "forget that you didn't write yesterday, forget what could have been. Think about what is and where you are..." and believe it. Or at least listen.
I am listening today.
I will start with this blank slate, here...
What happens now is anyone's guess.