Ankle Deep in the Creative Ebb

I’ve spent a good part of this past year trying to figure out why I write.  What made my work from 3 years ago so good?  Was it only the crisis?  Am I out of things to say?  Do I just not want to go there?  Have I not yet figured out how to evolve myself?

My brain is one of those kinds of brains that loves asking questions that cannot be answered.  It also loves to over analyze everything.  In early high school my brain was famous for nit picking ideas out of the ether.  I’ve got some embarrassing freshman essays that illustrate this eccentric ability.  However, this is the same brain that writes, the same brain that is able to code, design, and tackle real world problems.

However, when it comes to poetry my brain has been having a pity party for the past two years.  My brain is clever and likes to make this appear to be a rational argument.  I’m coming to realize my brain is full of shit.  It’s just scared, I’m just scared.

Lines and images I wrote in my last major spell of writing still flash in my mind.  The ideas still hold today.  I accomplished my goal I discovered and carefully wrote down my philosophy for life.  I captured all of it, recovered myself, and put it out there for the world to see.  Even though my life is not as dramatic and bohemian as it was then these ideas are still my thesis.

Which is terrifying!  So much of writing for me used to be about figuring out the world and my place in it.  Now that I have my home I don’t know what to say.  I don’t pretend that my words mean much to others, but for me much of what I said 3 years ago still tears me open.  It reminds me of the purpose of sacrifice.  I have a foundation, I just need to build the house.  I need to live in what I have already set aside.  I wrote a set of true beliefs, though now I need to write what I do with them.  The theme now is not one of earth shattering discovery, but one of living.  This is about the day to day.

My nutty over analytic brain goes crazy over this thought.  It likes to pry through wreckage and chaos.  This is new ground, this simple quiet life sitting on the couch with one of the cats drinking coffee on a Saturday morning planning out my trip to Walmart to price out glasses for my boyfriend and buy tights for the coming fall and winter trying to push work stress out of my mind, thinking about the economy, and still getting over a cold is not what I’m used to.

It is what I went through all of that other stuff for, it is what I want.  I tend to spend more time staring at a blank document being angry about what I want.  Getting pissed off about dealing with day to day stress, versus being thankful for what that gives me: stability.

with recognition we will grieve
that waking is the sorrow of ending dreams
- from "Dear America"

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