Write. Don't write. Write. Don't write. Over and over. Several times a day. For weeks on end.
For me, writing isn't just plunking down words, or venting, or even journaling. It's catharsis. It's a spiritual practice to remind me who I am, and who I am not.
The urge that says write is the movement toward facing confusion, demons, walls. It's about finding the prism of Yes inside all of the seeming No. It's about lubricating some sort of energetic machinery inside of me, a machinery that is deeply connected with my will to live, my willingness to be alive.
But I can't write about what I want to write about. In the split-second wake of a flood of Write Now, when the juicy current is fiery and full of hyper swirls of color, the reasons for not writing hit me full force. And I stop the motion. And nothing gets written.
The wall seems impenetrable. And even when I do write, when I scale the wall a sentence, a paragraph at a time, and press publish, once the rush of ascension passes, all that remains is a kind of vertigo, as if the few stationary objects in my living are revealed for the wobbles inherent in each one of them.
I suppose it's never been a safe choice to publish on the net. But it's felt true, powerful, transformative. For almost nine years now.
Something different is happening now. And as I try and ride it out, what's happening is that I'm not writing. And in not writing, I'm losing connection to some vital force inside of me.
I'm aging rapidly, looking and feeling old for the first time in my life. Picking bad habits back up again for the fleeting feeling of balance they provide, all the while knowing it's a dead end.
I've been mostly alone for most of my life. But now, I really am alone. Connections are impossible to make. The biggest concern being: how will I continue to make a living when my ability to connect to other people dwindles even further?
The destiny I was born into, both the nature and the nurture, was pretty harsh. I've spent a lifetime working to turn it all around, to create something fun, useful, creative, interesting. But the sense of hopelessness that's been slowly engulfing me shows me in ever greater detail how it's not mythic or spiritual or special. Just a life that's been difficult, much like most other folks.
And as I write these words, trying, trying to get to the heart of it all, that sense of panic begins to kick in, and the words begin to dry out.
Sad excuse for a post. Even a year ago I'd never have pressed publish on this. But I'm more afraid of losing my voice. Because without my voice it's just dust and smoke and bad feelings and habits.
Maybe that's the point. Strip it all down to the crusty skeletal remains. Strip away the sound til there's nothing left but silence.