4:26pm. Creativity in art; writing, drawing, daydreaming ... I am so so at. Creativity in avoidance I am a Master. I can put off, postpone, ignore, reduce, forget, forget again, all in order not to face up to writing something that might mean something. Or writing something that means nothing.
When I remember how my journal and I were joined at the wrist when I traveled I marvel. It was my best friend, confidante, release and strength. Even if I didn't write well, I wrote easily, bravely, constantly. I wrote when I was happy and strong, I wrote when I was weak and distressed. I wrote sober, I wrote drunk. I wrote all the time in all circumstances. I wrote and wrote and wrote.
Now I am seized up, constipated, cramped and chin full of cowardice. Why? I want to know why? My life is not the exciting life of travel and new experiences. I no longer ride the crests and troughs of love, but my life still has meaning. I still have a life of the mind. Don't I?
What I don't have is uninterrupted solitude. Perhaps that's the difference. My journal was my companion because when all was said and done; exploring, working, loving, at the end I was alone. Now solitude is something rare. Within minutes of coming in here Richard comes in too. I'll leave you alone, he says when he sees I am blogging but the damage, so to speak is done.
That 'pull' is back. The pull to be with him, company for him because he is not company for himself. Sad but true. And the thread is lost and the desire is lost and it's 4:41pm.
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