I am conscious of a seething unhappiness which drives me to work out what is wrong with my world. It has been there for weeks, no – for a lifetime. Like the high pitch static of tinnitus it can be cloaked by the noise of life’s traffic but in the spaces in between it lurks, a superating wound.
As I have chosen to extricate myself from the routine of employment and material stuff over the past three years it has created the freedom to commit to my life; a freedom to explore the world, to rove and write, to create an iPhone app, to dive into my imagination and wield it purposefully, to prioritise connection, community and friendship and to create. There are moments of exhilaration and contentment but there are times like this when the void opens and I am disorientated, I dont know what matters anymore. And something has to matter – right? In my struggle to make something matter I realise that I am resisting the reality that nothing matters. If nothing matters what is the point? Why bother? I am shrinking from the world, disappearing into inertia, as I try to hold back my bile of discontent I become more tense, jagged and brittle. I dont know what to say only what I should say. I am glad for my friends who everywhere I turn are awesome creative machines; a conveyor belt of babies, manifesting sexy, intimate partners out of the woodwork, new homes in nature, stringing words together to make novels or simply going with the flow of their journies knowing that if nothing matters then anything can matter and what a joy that is.
But I dont feel joy. Like a worm I wriggle on the hook of my dilema; the desire to know truth and feel good at the same time. A wise man once told me that living intuitively is not about feeling good, the shock of that paradox is a scar that reminds me I cannot hide from the truth of my motivation around the choices I make. The temptation to seek the salve of a good feeling is there but as I inch my way along this tight rope of life I know that to draw sustenance from the sugar of what is in easy reach is a posion. I can try and persuade myself that any number of things from the glass of wine or a Snickers bar, to making Christmas cards and shopping for Christmas presents are harmless if not really good things to do. If I do anything purely for the relief of feeling good then I just fuel this sluggish fat grub to dawdle dangerously above the chasm of calamity. Equally it is true that even creating this as a dilema is a strategy to procastinate yet again, to stagnate and purtrify.
I struggle to see the truth of where I am, clouding it with the innate need to compare the facts with failure against the past and the future; my tangible creations are invisible in the womb of my heart, how long is this pregnancy? I am the elephant of creators – with an extra long gestation? Or am I invisible to my creations just because they are not not manifest in a material vibration? I am afraid that they will miscarry bleeding my essence into the earth, I am afraid they will manifest and condem me to thankless motherhood. I am just afraid and when I am afraid I get angry and when I get angry I get depressed.
I can only imagine I am like the surfer in post coital pause, as the wave breaks to shore carrying the rider away from the adrenaline rush of the cavorting ocean and the raggle taggle bunch of wave catchers where the action happens. I can yearn to be back out there and fret about my choice to ride this particular wave or I can just be with the ebb and the flow of being a surfer. Being in the moment that I am in, dealing with the here and now. I am no less a surfer with my back to the ocean or buffing my board than I am when I am riding the unfurling edge of a monster breaker.