I haven’t written anything in weeks. W E E K S.
Although I’ve been feeling and thinking all the time about everything, nothing gets down on paper and only goes as far as a drafted text message that goes unsent.
I’m tired (to put it at best). Sometimes, I’ll stare off in the distance as my son cries and I’ll almost hear the silence. I’ve decided to surrender to the process part of the process. This, right here. This, the feeling, right now. There’s no sense in locking horns. I welcome it peacefully.
I’m reassessing. Shifting some things around. Reflecting all the time. I’m adopting new practices, most of them are healthy ones, better for me and in turn, for others.
I don’t want to feel as if nothing is worth doing, creating, if I don’t plan on sharing it. Isn’t that internal spark of joy that’s begging for my attention enough? Why isn’t anything? Why do I feel this perpetual need to be somebody? Or somebody else?
I write something, maybe pull a rabbit out of a hat. I’ll hear my son’s laugh. It’s not documented published in any form, but that bliss, that euphoria, is what gets archived and lost in time.
I look at the mess, the clutter, and most time’s I’ll gear toward cleaning it up. Now, I find it proof, evidence of the process, if not progress.
The chaos is testimony that I trust myself.
