Usually it either takes hours or moments for me to write something here. This one took days, not because it was complex or layered or filled with intriguing metaphors, but because I am worded out, spoken out, written out, wrung out and drawn out.
In a good way! The best way. The on my own and fighting vague terror about what the hell I’m doing way.
Alcohol helps. I can see the attraction now when I couldn’t before: the voices spurred by fear or insecurity usually circle twice and sit down like obedient pups once I’ve got a glass or two in me.
Here is what is not at all a secret: the past few months have been a total mindfuck. I expected always to be one of those “tortured artist” types – not that I ever considered myself a particularly good artist, nor particularly tortured, but I thought of myself as being miserable and twisted and pulled in multiple directions and that’s how I lived it out. I mean, how obvious! That’s what we do: predict our own suffering.
Now I am finally taking care of myself instead of relying on other people, in both my living situation and my career, and of course that was possible a long time ago but it was only obvious to me very recently, me being not a fan of the trappings of “self-actualization” while being 100% behind the actual concept. I have this astounding friend Michael who makes me laugh whenever he talks about how people obsess over their “process” but of course that’s what this entire journal is about. The more I write in it, the less I understand why anyone besides me would want to read it.
Not that I’m going to stop. After all, it was 9 years on 18 May. Something keeps me going. Your comments keep me going. Mostly my incredulity that I keep going keeps me going.