Convincing Myself to Write Again

So many times I write just to stop myself and say, “No one is gonna get this. I’ll have to spend more words explaining my thought than exploring it and moving on to the next one”. Which really just shows me quite a bit about where I’m at right now.

I’ll just write about writing. I’ll be candid – I don’t WANT to write. I don’t believe in the romanticism required to write a beautiful love poem anymore.  Not for me, anyway, not at this juncture.  I mean.. I know it exists. Once upon a time.. and that’s how fairy tales go.

I’m too all-over-the-place with the demands of this human realm to sit down and learn to write a novel.  I’m planning on retirement to write that grand masterpiece.

And, if I keep writing thesis statements on the existence of all things light and dark, I’m afraid my mind will totally overpower and conquest what feelings my heart may harbor silently, unbeknownst to even myself.  I fear I will relinquish all sense of nurture and a lost sense of womanhood, I was oh, so close, to finding.

I’m making an art of excuses.  I’m monopolizing on genius manipulation and losing gains.  I’m not writing shit.

I just don’t know if I should be using profanity in front of you guys, or in print, or even in my mind — I’m not sure if my flow or my writing is original enough to be shared.  I’ve spent so much time and concentration in forced hibernation when it comes to two things.  Spirituality and writing. In the beginning of these journeys, I steered clear of churches and libraries until I was sure my core practice and penmanship was uniquely & undoubtedly my own. Moving on.. I suppose, if I didn’t write, all those years of abstaining from a social life would be in vain. And God is a humble God.

I’m just scared of what I’ll read like.

If you’ll accept me, if you’ll like me – if you’ll overstand, not to mention be totally enthralled by the most fascinating place that exists to me.  We talk about the “moment”.  I flourish in the “space”.

I am completely, emphatically, passionately, romanticized by the space.  The space, between a thought, and the way it is communicated. Oh God.  It’s like a floating feather.. elegantly floating in the most graceful fall between all realms, faithful to it’s fall, and oblivious to it’s fear.  The space where the thought.. is free. to be.  It is let go, released. From the hand of the divine, dancing in it’s fall however it may be so inspired..and landing wherever it may, in my perception.  I love that space.  I wish I lived there. I only go there twice.  Kind of how your pinneal gland only naturally releases DMT twice in one’s life, just before you are born and just before you die.  I go here twice. When I write.. & when I’m in love.

A fascinating place.  All kinds of F-words fascinating. This is where the self is.  This is where the born stardust of energy expresses its entire encapsulation of energy.  All kinds of E words here.  This is where YOU are.

In the space, between your thought, and the way you communicate it. So simple. So overlooked. So disregarded. So beautiful. This is where we see YOU.

Here, you are totally naked – completely bare.  All saggy insecurities, childhood scars of bicycle accidents and bullied second hand clothing. Punctures of broken hearts.  All the stretch mark reasons, some wear long pants.  All the receding reasons, you wear baseball caps. As well as all the makeup you wear daily to underexpose it.  It’s not so much what you say, it’s what you choose and with what heart you say it.

This is where you are you.

If you’re shy, we can see it.  If you’re arrogant, we can see it.  If you’re strong, we can see it.

We. See. You.

And moving on… is my favorite, all-forgiving thing about artists, poets, open mic goers, live musicians and fans of such. They all see you and embrace you.  You are welcome, and not like the church welcomed, I mean, really welcomed.  Scars, open wounds, anxiety, stage fright, anger, emotion, all of it.

So much so that if you have the courage to go on stage without your poem, to recite boldly from memory, probably because you’ve practiced in the mirror every day that week, on top of recording yourself on your cell phone to replay the horrid sound of your own voice on the train ride home.. just to be at your peak at $5 open mic night, performers get in free, and your memory fails as you stumble on silence.. the crowd suddenly morphs into cheerleaders of afros and wooden earrings, & hemp made clothing.  The sea of soothing faces collectively throws you sea foam sparkles and they chant “You got this, Poet!”.  And when you get it, because you can’t not get it, with all those intentions of you getting it, and spit a line that hits everyone deep in their dogma, they yell “Reeeeeewinnndd.. ”  You’d better spit that shit again.  When supporting your local arts means at least complimenting the live painter in the corner, if not buying a print, because he is always present, in his own space. Totally exposing his process on canvas, turning stumbled blotches of paint into part of the final product.

Because that’s what life is all about, going with the flow, right? Preserving the present. Living in the Moment.  Vibeing in your space.

What if we could live here.  In the Art Life found in the space between a thought, and the way it’s communicated.


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