A Soulplace

I took a long break about… 3 months… from writing because I thought it was a distraction from what was important to me.

Little did I know writing was what feels most important to me.

I’ll talk about feelings for a bit? I’m an artist, that’s all I have no thoughts just feelings, right? Writing for me is a type of bliss, it feels like floating on air, riding the wind, listening to the waves crash on the seashore, and like watching the waves with my chin resting on the sand.

So why don’t I do it? Why don’t I carve out time out for it to play with words?

Truthfully? Still scared I guess. Scared that I’m going to lose the part of me that has ambition. That once I’ve used up my spark of creativity it won’t be there anymore.

I’m a creature of habit, and the habits I have right now aren’t helping me do what I imagine I should be doing. Why is that? I like living in imagination. I’m not exactly the hardened realist that I should be after living as long as I have.

Building a skill to interact with the world… to make money… writing. What makes words valuable? Does it really matter whether I write or not?

It does to me.

I know writing isn’t real work like building buildings or cooking food or taking care of people, but still it has some value. Even if that value is just that I get to look back on this someday and say, hey look, yeah, I wrote that, no big deal.

The other thing that happened is that I showed my writing to someone offline, and they critiqued my work. I had been waiting and looking for criticism for the whole time I was on Twitter, but after I got criticism I froze. (Rereading that I realize how stupid that sounds I asked for feedback like twice over a two month period, seriously that isn’t exactly trying.) The idea of changing something over and over just for it to be an echo of nameless curiosity made me wonder… What am I doing this for…

And I didn’t have an answer. So I did what I usually do I stopped. But it hurt so much more than I expected. The urge to write would hit me at odd times, I would write at weird hours, like late at night or in-between phone calls. I thought I had a problem.

And I do have a problem or two. I don’t like being honest with myself, or rather I don’t like that fact that honesty is often the veil behind harsh words in my self talk.

So I’m carving out some time right now to write. Knowing that if I don’t come back and continue tomorrow… everything will be fine with everyone but me.

I’m not the person who has the answers, I’m just a sideshow on a crowded city street, and that’s ok.