A Downward Spiral into a Blinding Sun
If anyone still bothers to read this blog you will note I have not posted in a very long time. In fact, the last time I possessed the courage to blog I had fewer lines engraved on my face and was a few pounds heavier.
I believe 2010 (the last half, at least) was a toxic time. I was a stranger in a strange land, alternately peering into a fishbowl at the rest of the world or peering out of it, my mermaid tail banging helplessly against the algae-covered glass. "Look at me," I pleaded. "Save me."
I am not the only one. I watched my friends face financial ruin, suffer broken hearts, and meet mortality face-to-face. Meanwhile we all went out to dinner, drank more wine, spent money on things we didn't want anyway. I spent my time being a social butterfly, a mediocre writer, a diffident lover, trying (and sometimes failing) to be a good friend. My writing partner patiently ripped chapters out of me while I kicked and screamed. I tentatively wrote embarrassingly bad articles and rejected creative opportunities because I had no faith in me.
My artist's well has been dry for much of the year. The well was poisoned, the water turned dark and stagnant, and eventually nothing was left but bone dry dust settling over my eyes, my ears, my heart.
There is something magical about the dawn of a new year. A rebirth, it gives hope, a second chance, a sense of unlimited opportunity. I pray this year will be kind to me, and to you as well.
I believe 2010 (the last half, at least) was a toxic time. I was a stranger in a strange land, alternately peering into a fishbowl at the rest of the world or peering out of it, my mermaid tail banging helplessly against the algae-covered glass. "Look at me," I pleaded. "Save me."
I am not the only one. I watched my friends face financial ruin, suffer broken hearts, and meet mortality face-to-face. Meanwhile we all went out to dinner, drank more wine, spent money on things we didn't want anyway. I spent my time being a social butterfly, a mediocre writer, a diffident lover, trying (and sometimes failing) to be a good friend. My writing partner patiently ripped chapters out of me while I kicked and screamed. I tentatively wrote embarrassingly bad articles and rejected creative opportunities because I had no faith in me.
My artist's well has been dry for much of the year. The well was poisoned, the water turned dark and stagnant, and eventually nothing was left but bone dry dust settling over my eyes, my ears, my heart.
There is something magical about the dawn of a new year. A rebirth, it gives hope, a second chance, a sense of unlimited opportunity. I pray this year will be kind to me, and to you as well.
Here's hoping the rest of the year and 2012 is much kinder than the last, too.
ReplyDeleteI can appreciate your 'dry well' frustration. Seems like it's depleted with the daily demands on self and time that just won't let the creative half loose long enough to begin its magic.
If you figure out a 'cure' be sure to let me know!
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