I am forcing myself to write. I would like to *want* to write, but alas, I do not. A part of me fears that if I allow myself to give it up for too long, it will go by the wayside just as all my loves before it.
Once upon my life, voracious with curiosity and energy, I pursued any means of creative outlet within reach. Dance, theater, art, writing… When troubles were thrown my way, these became a refuge. But like any cunning beast, misfortune can track down the scent of your cold sweat and revulsion.
Still one marches on, throwing the heavy emotions into the abyss of creative expression in hopes of a resounding echo that will dash away the darkness. You begin to cling desperately to things you can still call your own. Time. Silence. Self.
But, a life lived too quickly, sours too early. You are fixed in time and space and the world around proceeds without you.
At some point, living vicariously becomes a source of resentment and scorn; it infects the very air around you. Poison for you and those around you.
Life question I’m hoping I’ll resolve soon:
Q: If I am no longer able to do what I love, what is left?
A: I suppose I should resign myself to a life of banality and learn to appreciate what i DO have and am able to do.
I am old. And too many hopes are as too many ornaments upon the old. Unbecoming.
This is what it’s like to have no identity. Plain and simple. I no longer have the agency to cultivate my own sense of self. It was arrested at a time when it was in full force exploration. It is now the product of external forces, formed like a meteor, the result of barrage collisions and weathering.
