The Struggle — Personal
I sit in my chair, twiddling my thumbs and staring at a blank wall. My body relaxes and my eyes grow slightly wider as my mind gets caught in a current of emptiness, an anchorless drift along a featureless reservoir. There are whispers here, they buzz in the shadows of my mind but they are too quiet to be heard. No words catch, no thought lingers, everything just drifts past and I pass through it all like a ribbon of mist.
Sometimes I think to myself that I don't have enough time. It's such an inaccurate and infuriating thought. Not enough time. Like somehow it was stolen from me. Like somehow the universe hasn't afforded me the same amount of time that it has afforded everyone else. Like somehow my mismanagement of it is not my fault.
My aspirations are not big. I do not want to raise a family or advance my career or find a cure for cancer. I only want to write. And to be read. It is a small thing but its importance is the largest thing in any room I'm in. It fills my head at every moment that I am awake. I can taste it on my tongue when I inhale, it is sweet and slightly bitter. And it lingers in my chest when I exhale, pressing against my heart in an aching, reassuring way. I can feel it standing next to me, reminding me of it its presence, and I take its hand, feeling its warmth, and then I turn my face from it, ignoring its penetrating stare.
I am lost in that featureless place and I know that time has not stopped for me. I watch the hours slide from the clock. I struggle to catch them but my hands cannot hold them and they slip away. Lost to another day that is setting on itself.
I need a compass and a lighthouse to guide me out of the storm that I so often find myself sailing into. Because I am capable of so much more than this. Because my time is all that I have. It is everything. So why do I waste it? Because it is easy. It is the only thing that is easy. And it is abysmal that I shy from challenging work like I would shy from a slap in the face. It is a basic, reactionary impulse that is more a part of me than I ever chose it to be. I abhor it. It is a weakness that I am ashamed of, a plight that has always been with me, a curse that has been bestowed upon me since birth. And it is my struggle.
A Musician wrote:
Excess comfort, distraction and lethargy are, indeed, the great enemies of creativity. Seek out inspiration instead of distraction and creativity becomes easier.
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