The utter force, sheer joy, and quant happiness of an old playlist on the brain. Over 20 hours curated to some story, that had many other stories and playlists for my own Muse. One of them, you could say… I feel bright. I feel cheery. It feels like December. Even though I quite literally was sitting in my chair watching the leaves fall out my window and it seems as if nature herself was on a bit of a delay as well.
Next year has me thinking of Dragons, and my alignment has me worried. I extensively celebrated this current year. I followed the tradition and made my own. It felt like cooking Thanksgiving Dinner all by myself. I nearly did that too, aside from an amazing Sous that doesn’t mind at all to peel carrots or potatoes. This too is a blessing if you ever come across a prep chef that will peel vegetables for you. Let it be known, I hate peeling vegetables. Ironically it was my first job for those Thanksgiving Dinners. The former Executive and I have switched roles as of late. I’m a fucking Jedi now. (Essentially in laments terms, as to terms of hierarchy and earning those positions and roles within a family that cooks.)
As I have earned the role of Executive Chef in my family, I have also earned the role of keeper of the stories and tellers of the tale. Family lore is my game. A quiet kid listens. The other ones didn’t catch on. Family Heirlooms of dialogue and I inherited them all, just because I listened. Now I keep the traditions. Now I bring up family memories after we all indulge in our drink of choice. My Mother attempts to convince my cup of coffee to transform into a White Russian. (She just wants me to celebrate on the holidays with them.) Dad suggests a nogger in the morning to start the early day bright. I go outside for a smoke, and I return – smiling.
I suppose responsibility and the future is on the brain today. Something aligned with all this work. Telling myself, don’t write so much. People need to see your work, give them time too. Digressing this on the same website, gives me an eerie vibe in my gut of guts. Yet the transparency of the writer continues.
I used to think that poetry and my abstract sense of writing came from wanting to tell you, without telling you. Everything I’ve been going through. From triumph to fuck up, to being a lowlife and rock bottom, and even the times I feel so full of light I could touch the clouds and graze the edges of heaven myself. I used to only write when I’m sad. Now I write when I’m bored too. I realize all the cobwebs I have lingering in there. Knock the junk out. Knock the shit from my brain. Digress and digest. Again. Here we go. We’ve got work to do.
I suppose keeping this mentality has kept me from suffering with my one of biggest woes. That stupid block. And what do I do it for? I got nothing to say? No, not that.
I didn’t feel like sharing.
And that, is where I inherently find the problem.
Unbeknownst to many, as a quiet kid. Quiet would sometimes turn to mute and non-verbal. For say how many months or years went by. A simple nod or headshake of yes or no and maybe a whispered “thank you” got me out of a lot of shit. I didn’t want to speak up. Lips zipped and shut, because I didn’t want to bother and thought no one else cared and it’d be a bother if I did open for anything but a peep. I remember my voice cracking the few times I would raise my hand in class. I had the answer, I knew that. Only when I saw the ferocity of struggling students, I’d open up. Give you the answer. The teacher would smile. The students would look on in wonderment and glee. I helped them out. I’d have a panic attack in the bathroom after. Sometimes after such a long marathon of episodes of whatever activity, you don’t realize how long it’s been since you broke out the common tool. I simply forgot how to, after awhile. It was the same with my parents. Years on and they wouldn’t hear a thing from me after awhile. Then I started noticing when I did speak up, people listened. Some of the most virtuous and wise figures in life have reiterated this observation, and I only thought it was a concept of the human condition.
Thankfully, these days. I cannot shut the fuck up.
So much so, I got a little too inspired by those books I’d escape into. Learning about the authors and poets. Dreaming of their life and sad story. All my heroes are dead, but their legacy lives on. Their work breathes life, as dust collects on the pages. Storied tales buried in graveyards, and the withered branches have kept them nourished in spirit.
So if all my heroes are dead, how the hell do I get to the point I have mastered this whole writing thing and can be honest? After years of writing on different platforms or scribbles in journals and quick notes in my phone… I finally started telling people I’m a writer. I quit my job, suffered an injury the day after. Lived in delusion as the bills piled up. Many anxious moments and panic attacks later, it felt like my stress was correlating with inflation. I was working three jobs and writing, and then I got sick. I was always a little sick, but this was bedridden sick. Learning how to walk again and balance, sick. The Quarter Life Crisis looms in the near future, still. The only solace left was writing. I pushed it away for some other career and thought that was my life’s calling.
Ten years in, and I just can’t stay away from ink and keys.
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