There was a time where everything inspired the desire to write. Having made a series of big breaks in my life and running on adrenaline most of the time, I was highly charged. My mind was taking in new experiences, new neural connections were being created hourly and I wanted to get it out there, wanted to share my new ideas with my new friends. I was in an expansive space – my world was getting bigger and so was I.
Any expansion has to be supported by back fill, a tree extending a limb further out than it has roots to anchor it will inevitably topple over, and so it is with human beings. I feel that my back fill has gone into retreat with regard to creative endeavours though and they are such an important part of me that that thought makes me slightly panicky.
This creative retreat is somehow tied to isolationism and lack of trust on my part. Trust of myself and others. Of my voice in particular and of there being a place in the world where what I have to bring is valued and acknowledged. I fear large groups will subsume me and my individualism. Taking part in memes and calls for submissions fill me with a performance anxiety that I am so tired of. My critical internal voice tells me there is no loss in my not taking part. That what I have to offer is nothing of consequence and that I will just be part of an echo chamber repeating the same thing over and over again.
My critical internal voice is a liar.
In true eye fashion I want end this short piece in an upbeat manner but perhaps this particular thought needs to just hang there for a while like a spider travelling the world on a silk thread, blown by winds to a place it couldn’t have dreamt of but whose pull it couldn’t ignore.