I don’t even care if that’s meant to be two words. I’m in full on rebuttal mode, fighting against all these people (all both of them) who say that I write inspirationally and wonderfully and whatever, when all I feel is that actually I’ve written nothing of merit in WEEKS, except some half-baked poetry, and I don’t know how much longer I can exist under the pretension of ‘writer’, when in fact I have produced…squat.
It’s not a competition, this writing gig. At least not for me. I’ve used it as a means to an end, to raise money for cancer charities, and I still have a post owed. But I can’t right now because my brain is filled with the blue moon and is apparently utterly incapable of comprehensive thought.
Since two weeks before my birthday (thank goodness that day is over with), I’ve been living in a whirlwind of highs and lows and anxieties and happinesses, and fortunately not too many angers and no griefs, but GOOD GRIEF, it’s been sufficient of a turbulence to thoroughly discombobulate me. I even got told I use sentences which are too long, but quite honestly, I write how I talk (a lot of the time) and how I talk is with Oxford Commas (when I’m not about to pass out from exhaustion), and just deal with it already.
I can’t tell if I’m done being a writer, since all I was in it for was the connections, and those are great right up until they aren’t any more. Or they disappear and I can feel a tiny uncertain surge of wondering whether they’re rolling eyes and quietly reaching for the red X. I’m certainly no-where with any book, and I still can’t be bothered with the idea of coming back to regular blogging, and frankly it hasn’t made a jot of difference that I haven’t, so whatever (except now, because all the thoughts in my brain need a place to drain out into (so perhaps that’s what this is for (in which case I’m aware I’ve just undermined my entire premise (which I maintain I’m within my rights to do)))).
My point is somewhere between not mattering, and it happening anyway, and wondering what and whether it was all even worth it, because half the time I feel sustained and kept together, and the other half I feel as though the outside is being flayed from my soul, and I’m drawing in crayons on the walls of my mind again. It’s really no way to be.
Then there’s the added concern that those who know me, will have a five minutes of indulgent “There she goes again”ing, and those who don’t know me might just…go…because clearly anyone who writes this kind of shit is entirely too high maintenance to bother with anyway.
But at least I digress in a delightfully posh English accent, and if anyone wants to hook me up with my own phone-line in Murica, I’ll make enough for the next few trips, within a few hours, and then give up on writing entirely, because why bother when I’m rich! I’ll just sit amidst the knowledge that I have nothing left to prove (or lose) and listen to muse-ic on repeat until it floods the stagnant corners of my mind, unlocking them and washing them sparkling clean.
I hope. Because I’m fed up of fighting but it’s all I’ve got left; I’m sick of the stressing but without am bereft; I want to work it out but that makes it seem conditional; when what goes on is soon, or never, but please be more than fictional; I’m not having a good day and it’s starting to show; perhaps now is the time to let it show; I’ll be good enough for a cold shoulder and a shut door; entertainer; silly clown – ridiculous, painted mess is what I’m good for; finally learning the last art of finesse; blundering through on a tangent I digress; flooding my heart with undermined erosion; waiting to mitigate the other shoe-drop implosion…and to be honest I just shouldn’t waste your time – it’s all the moon’s fault and I’ll be just fine.
That’s not to say that ‘just fine’ will ever be quite good enough, or to intimate that ‘just fine’ is any more suited to life between these ears than anyone else between their own. I wrote about disconnection and the feeling of loneliness and was OVERWHELMED by how many people that resonated with. Most of them, I think.
But now it’s big, which is a huge, important thing, and somewhere between write free and be me, the people from their gathered corners spoke out about feeling marginalised and somehow I hope we connected, otherwise again, the point is reduced to…what…showing off? So I’m back to wondering what it’s all worth, seeing the non-light shining into my space on the earth,
No, Lovelies. It won’t be borne, and frankly right now, with the moon in the house of ‘head mess’, I know I shouldn’t be writing anyway, even though you read it and think it matters, because if it’s too much ‘real’ then I’ve sabotaged myself then I will be very grateful, because ain’t nobody got time for that. So I hope that it wasn’t bothered with because this level of ‘me’, this early, could prove a step too far and I would be sad.
So I’m back to being a sky full of stars, wishing on glitter and sunshine and hoping I don’t fly so close the paper wings don’t fall off my arms and send me plunging back into a place where I feel the edges of the abyss sneaking in. I need to soar and glide and sleep, and let the shadows win and have their way, because nothing can be right as long as I’m involved, but it can be pretty in very understated sort of way, like bumblebees and white clouds in blue skies, and doing your best and trying to help others wherever you can.
It is sufficient. For now. As long as it’s not in duplicate. The juxtaposition of just being one of me is quite enough, thank you!
[Will I read this before I publish? Will I heck! Worry about it in the morning, cos it doesn’t matter anyway.]
DISCLAIMER: The day after I wrote this, I was diagnosed with shingles, which apparently can send your emotions and mental capability to Life, right into freefall. So yeah! Maybe I’m not as nutty as all that; just ill!