Cave Dweller

Another early morning post.

What thoughts are coursing through my head, stirring around?  I usually try to keep things steady in the morning, and clam.  Keep my mind like a mirror, like the reflective surface of water when its undisturbed.

To be literary was always somewhat painful.  To write with intention I found painful.  Contorting myself, taking on a particular voice… I felt I become clumsy and artificial… as if adopting a new gait.

Things here are o.k.  I lied down yesterday and found myself laughing.  After the laughter subsided, I thought to myself that things here were o.k.  I suppose they are, as long as I’m allowed to look to the future and imagine where this work might take me, or what it might set me up for.

I thought this morning what would happen… how I might react if I saw my end approaching, or if I was given a more definite time frame on when I might meet my end… and I thought I might rush to turn out a piece, to create something of lasting of value, and truly express myself doing it.  To put my whole being into a piece.

I don’t know when I made the decision to trade a certain permanence for another.  I still feel today – although perhaps it’s a mythical part of a life narrative – that there was a definite point where I decided in one direction, when faced with two paths… where I decided to have a child and a family, and seek out permanence and happiness in this realm, rather than remain a writer.

I was allowed to call myself a writer, tucked away and hidden, scratching out lines in notebooks quietly in my room.  It seemed more pure and unadulterated, to write for no one.  Indeed there was a beauty, beyond the cathartic act, as if reaching for truth, as if trying to become truth and making oneself a medium.

I shake off the cobwebs somewhat and stretch my wings… little flutterings… otherwise quiet and timid still, but a little stirring… and I’m happy because of it.

I don’t know who I am.  It’s somewhat embarrassing that I begin each of these paragraphs with the first-person pronoun “I”… although this site was intended to be for introspection.

Time wags on… and it scares a little… it makes me uneasy… or it’s a little discomfiting…  How to make one’s way in this world?  Could I really give two years of my life to this?  It seems amazing to think that I could…

 

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