The book that I can't stand to have open in front of me.

The blank kind. The sort in which I was told, all through my years as an art student, that I should be filling with sketches, ideas, images that may or may not develop.
Can't open the things without wanting to run away. I made an effort recently to give it a real go, to be a man about it and keep a damn sketchbook, but that one, too, lies collecting dust in a corner of the studio, the pictures on its first twenty or so pages nothing more than brittle exoskeletons, destined never to expand, never to be a painting on my wall.
I float through life. My mind is rarely where I am; my hands count out change for you but they do it in rhythm with the music that was playing the last time they held a brush. How can I set them to work on a sketch, a plan? They only work on the real thing. How can I expect myself to grab a wave from the river and put it on paper and close the book? Will it not dry and darken; what is left when I open it up again?
I paint in the moment. It gives me comfort (when I'm not worrying about it) that I can only feel like I know what I'm doing at the exact moment that I am doing it. Sketching isn't doing it, for me. Sketch books weigh hundreds of pounds in my hands. Maybe I'll make a sculpture out of all of my abandoned sketchbooks someday.