I remember when I used to write. I mean, I’d sit at my computer, and my thoughts (feelings) would pour almost effortlessly from heart (soul) mind… in what to me at least were acceptably well formed thoughts. I used to write poetry on the daily. For a while it was limited to stupid, sappy, lovelorn, poetry. But I was WRITING! Some of it was published even. I remember sitting at bars watching bands play, and suddenly words would flash through my mind, and I’d be grabbing at napkins, writing in eyeliner, just to get it all down.
I’m a little bit wanting to scream from frustration. I can’t even seem to formulate a cohesive enough paragraph for my journal now. WTF?!
I started writing night before last, New Year’s Eve, and it was actually flowing. Things I just wanted to say. I don’t care if anyone actually reads them, they just weren’t going to be “journal only” words, in case someone does see them, who might find something of value in them.
In the waning hour of what at some points felt like my life’s worst year, almost paradoxically finishing (in so many ways) as one of it’s best, my only company a candle’s flickering light, and the sounds of a beloved (song), to you (2016) I happily, peacefully, bid, a final farewell.
In years (not too distant) past, tonight would have seen me counting regrets for choices (not) made, as tears burned their way down my cheeks. There would have been sad poetry written, then tucked in a box filled with memories (and secrets) at which I couldn’t look, and of which I would not speak.
I got that much written, got interrupted, and try as I might, could not get into the flow again. Not for 2 days. I’m still not in the flow of it now. I’m just done with it, in its original form, and feeling. Which is a little annoying as I had a point to make, just can’t seem to get there anymore. Or even remember my point, really.
Maybe I should just run with it, in a different way. 2016 started out shit, the middle was crazy, and painful, and weird, and threw me for a loop, I decided to bail on everything that was bullshit or that sucked, before any or all of it drained me of the last ounces of life I felt I had, then I did some cool stuff, saw some cool people, listened to some cool music, remembered who I am, blah blah blah, and the last couple of months of it were fantastic, which shocked the shit out of me. I mean, they were fantastic mostly because I’m not sad, or scared anymore, or lonely (even when I’m alone) anymore.
So on New Year’s Eve, home alone, I wrote down some intentions, and then burned them. I also spent time stargazing, contemplating mysteries, (borrowed words, because they fit) sending my energy across thousands of miles to wish a happy new year as it was reached on another continent, thinking about the changes that have occurred in my life, and me, in 2016. I meditated my way into the new year, as much as possible, while holding the Babes, who woke up just a few minutes before.
I guess I can just say that MAYBE this is how it’s supposed to be, right now. MAYBE I’m just supposed to be (occasionally) writing some not remotely poetic or lyrical stuff. Maybe the fact that I can’t focus on ANYTHING is because there is so much growth and expansion going on, and not the VERY late onset of ADD?
But anyway, I burned intentions and counted stars and sent (and received) love. I didn’t shed a tear. And 2016 is over. And 2017 loves me, and I it. And all that I desire, desires me. (mantra) And I signed up for a writing workshop. And I’m going to figure out why my writing (WAS) blocked, and take all of the necessary steps to unblock myself. Which if Unicorn wisdom can be applied here, can be just as simple as deciding that when I wake up tomorrow, I will again, write.