Musings 2021

After 24 years, I know my life's purpose

And I don't know if I will ever accomplish anything

There is so much left in this world for me to discover. So much left to wonder over. Sometimes I forget this notion, trapped in the sludge of the regular work week. I forget to look outside at the grass and the trees and the sky. I take my dog's love for granted and it is only when the wind blows to I remember to look up. To wonder, to love, to discover.

I have so many stories I want to tell. It's like I'm running back and forth between a dozen artifacts as they are being dug out from the sands of my subconscious and each time I leave one to visit another, sand fills back in its hole proving I will never dig anything out until I focus on one project, one story. But they all have so much potential, so much of me in them. I think they call that Shiny Idea Syndrome.

But the artifacts, the stories, they talk to me. All of them, all the time and it's like I can only focus in on one voice and just as I do, another cuts in and I've lost the signal.

I need to find a way to not just hone in on the signal but to lock on as well.

To hold inspiration in my grasp for an extended period of time.

But it is impossible, it is as if I am always trying to hold on to a spot of light with my fingers. It would be better to let it go and let it shine on me when it chooses.

Some might say to try discipline and routine but those methods don't work for me either. I don't want to sit down and write the words if I'm not feeling inspired because then the words come out all sh*tty and forced.

But I have learned one trick, it has finally made sense.

Always be writing, so that when the muse calls, you are ready.

I finally understand now. I understand what it means to be in standby mode. It is to be just a step away from consciously writing at all times. Always stuck in this curious state - a state of wonder and openness. Always ready to receive.

But can I maintain this state? This feeling? I can't tell if it is easier with a balanced brain or not.

I think so.

It is easier to look upon the world with wonder when you are not wholly absorbed in thoughts of self-loathing.

Finding myself after so many years of burnout is difficult.

I expect to find the same girl-child that I left behind.

Instead I find someone else entirely.

Someone hardened into maturity, softened by beauty, but jaded all the same. She is ugly and old for someone so young like a carcass or molted snakeskin. And I yearn to break free of her.

To shed that withered shell behind me, to transform into something fresh and new, not like a babe but like a pearl. Eroded by time, forged by hardship, and turned upside down, something so like the original yet unfamiliar.

I want people to be glad to know me and to think I am a kind, quiet soul with depth and heart. Not someone to be fooled but respected like a Wise Woman.

And I wish to reach people with the written word. With stories about who I am and characters I create. With adventure and truth. I want to shout, "Look world! Here I am! This is me."

I can't do that with pictures, rarely with art or food.

But with the written word, the written word is my sword with which I mete out justice and it rings true.

My written word is more me than my physical body and I wish to share myself, to feel the beating pulse beneath the cold, cruel shell of this world. I know it is there.