I'm never quite sure where or when to start, or what I'm starting,
But "It's been too long" is a phrase I'm parting with because it's flawed,
Well-meant, but bored, kind of like yours truly who is spent from spending to much time on to little, Aiming for things which just slowly whittle away at my soul,
These monetary goals aren't making me whole, they aren't making me holy, they're just making me broke:
More broke than my bank account yet just as unspoken, my heart in a safe behind bars and locked doors and security systems just watching out for who's listening and not letting them anywhere near the blood which flows through my veins,
And yet this same blood is restless, needy and greedy for freedom outside of itself.
help.
When did my "safe" become my "cage", and why did I decide that to change was just to disengage? I'm cursed to never stay the same but I'm also cursed with indecision, to much precision is never a good thing because then you never get anything done: while you look for what is missing you're missing what you should look for.
Does that make sense or does it just expand what should be condensed?
Because I only ever get lyrical to cover my insufficiencies as if a multitude of words is more likely to make me be heard.
What I'm writing about is simply what I keep dancing around: living in the moment. It seems simple to do until you realise you have to choose to do it every waking second because life is in the PRESENT - but I've been fighting to keep it in the future.
As if two months is going to get me any closer to home, closer to knowing I can be known for something more than failures - no, the same things I fight with now I will be battling then,
All I will accomplish is writing with a different pen, not writing a different story.
See I just want to colour mine in, turn these black and white pages of work, sleep, repeat into something resembling the masterpiece we were all made to be
.... and that's where I wanted to start, not talking about me but talking about art.
The elusive subject we both run for and run from, we could study ourselves for twice as long as we have been and never understand its unseen mysteries,
Yet we treat it as normal, whats either in vogue or informal is the highlight.
And I've been frightened of it, shaking like autumn trees shedding leaves to prepare for winter,
The winter of creativity knowing I have things to say yet never putting pen to page because what difference do words make anyway?
I could string them in whatever order and they would never quite encapsulate all the things I feel or all of the real fears around my mind or the lengths I'd go to show you I tried -
So I write nothing instead, as if absence of words covers what ought to be said.
A starving artist or a man who is starving his art - which is worse?
Because I've lost heart.
But I believe we were created to create, to replicate, to duplicate all we see around us.
The mountains are granite sculptures, the sky is volumes and the sea is poetry beneath me, all with words of depths unsounded sharing another story, singing of His infinite wisdom and glory -
A story we are all tied up in and despite beginning with fear I somehow always return to here simply because it is worth returning to.
This is the only art, in God my end and my start, my hope and my heart, my future and past and this moment apart is only temporary, like the leaves in Autumn.
Matthew 6:7, Proverbs 10:19, Bullet Soul (Switchfoot), Stressed Out (Twenty One Pilots) and Hannah Bates Pound's spoken word all inspired this post.
