It has effectively been two or three years since the last time I’ve decided to ruminate over the minute details of my life– and the truth is that I no longer have the same drive to write as I used to. Perhaps I’m a little less self-obsessed.
I once wondered, aloud on the internet, how people can continue to create beautiful things, because I only manage to birth onto the world a gift of mild literacy when the notches on my soul can no longer hold the anguish I let sit. A friend responded, “the ability to create even when uninspired separates the professional from the hobbyist. That’s why I keep myself sad 7/11.” It dawned on me then that the sadness and the emptiness I feel, as an individual, is not a wholly unique or special experience. The truth of the matter is that everyone feels the same sadness, some people just allow beautiful things to arise from the murky waters of their humanity.
My frustrations today are mainly that I am much less creative than I have ever been, and I struggle with the mutual exclusivity of happiness and grayness, sadness and art. Maybe I’ll figure something out, maybe I won’t. Until then, however.
I guess I’ll indulge in a little memory-writing.