"There is nothing to writing.
All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."
I have no one to blame but myself for my lethargy and the lack of excitement in my life. And I’m not talking about the drama type of excitement. The will-they-or-won’t-they drama. Or the why-didn’t-he-call drama. Or the can-you-believe-he/she-did-that drama. Or the my-life-is-so-hard drama. I’m talking about the excitement of being alive. The wake up and thank the universe for blood pumping through your veins kind of excitement. I am happy. But I am not satisfied. I want more. I want change. I want movement. And I want growth. It makes me sad that I am the source of my own discontent. I know what to say and what to counsel others to do. And yet here I sit, alone in my room, in my underwear, crying into my computer.
I have no excitement.
What is it that I want out of life? Who is it that I see myself becoming? What is it that I would sacrifice anything to achieve? My passion. It speaks to me in fits and bursts. I hear it and my heart pounds in recognition. But then day-to-day life nudges it out. I can’t allow the mundane to dampen the beauty around me. I won’t allow the routine to stifle the allure of the unknown. And yet, this is exactly what I’ve been allowing. I speak of strength and growth and change and alignment. Yet I ache with a desire to shuck it all and start over. Who needs a job? Who needs a house? Who needs stuff? Who needs life as we know it? I remember, vaguely, how it felt to be free of these things. Am I working toward a life where my truth is always my reality? No. And this is what stings my soul today. I know that I am my own captor.
And in that thought lies all the power to overcome.