Work in progress, pt. II

Posted on: 1 September 2008

This morning I wake up with a sense of dread. A quiet despair. I fear something and something that stands out clear as a rock in my mind frightens me. A knowing that has visited me before, bubbling up quietly, just a tiny bubble, from the depths of my mind. One however with enormous consequences that I am not ready to face. I would not know how.

Then there is a longing to return to that flow, that work, that I was doing on friday. Which also fills me with dread and despair. Am I chasing rainbows? Is this something I think will make me happy? Am I trying to please dictator Happiness, my own private Castro? Again? Will I exhaust all my energies into this wild goose chase, this rainbow chasing, only to find myself exhausted and disappointed to boot, in the end? Can I make a career, writing? Never, for sure! No money in it, at all! OK, so maybe I should try anyway, if it so feels like a fit. And has been on my mind since I was a child – insecurity and the whole misunderstood-trap making me push the thought from my mind. Forbidding myself to believe. Forbidding myself to excell – to try to excell in front of the public eye. Because hey, arent my dad’s family and me the ones with the hidden genius? That no one would acknowledge if they were drowning in it? The genius that was wasted on commoners like, say, the rest of the world?

Or am I just channeling Oma, who did want to write all her life herself but somehow – same reasons? – never got round to it?

The impatience, the irritability, the feeling that all this is beside the point – beside <i>my</i> point. All this being: most other things, people, activities in life. Grocery shopping. Spending time, money and energy on clothes. Housekeeping, cleaning, organizing. People talking opinions. People interrupting me.

But then, even if I could live off of that – would it make me happy? Wouldnt I just be allowing myself to drown in my own private kingdom? Would I disconnect from the rest of the world, disappearing in a fantasy world? Is this just another place for me to hide from events I cannot control? Hide from the world and its unsafety? Is it just fear seducing me to make a career out of hiding?

Feeling I may serve, improve the world through my writing. Meet people – likeminded ones. Feeling the freedom, the sense of direction. The order in chaos – or something like how chaos exists and I do not have to order it, but let it be, let it go, and maybe on occasion, by accident, find something beautiful or meaningful happen in it. The love for my own thinking, letting it bloom and letting it be a lens for the world. Opening up to beauty and ugliness alike. Sharing my lens with others in order for them to experience more openly what lies before them, or within them. To find a more accepting, forgiving way to look at themselves and the world. But mostly, to do that for myself. That’s the first and foremost thing that will keep me going. To release some of that anger and fear. By substituting – by looking at – by wondering about – by not lingering on. By opening up to other possibilities. Providing options. To myself and to others. No one needs to be right. It is about the way things work, how they can work. I need to lose the inadvertent judging that narrows my mind, condemning me to a life of anger and fear. They are not something to fear and deny. They are there as healthy expressions of a social and emotional being. Hints on how to act – someting to look at and consider when deciding on your course of action.

Still, can I break free from the paradigm, the lens, that I was given by birth and nurture? Can I step away from the norms and values that were instilled in me? Can I surpass the limitations, open up and choose my own? Staying open to the flexibility of adapting? Or, do I really have a choice? With my set of qualities and personality traits? Is this what I am born to do and should I just give in? Making life’s choices so much easier and more clear cut for me? Can I come out the other end of my fantasy world, more open and confident in my role and position in the world? Or will I end up sad and alone, isolated, having cut myself off from that same real world?

I guess I cannot know the answers to these questions before I set out on this part of the journey. I must hope for the best, and not fear the worst. If it comes to pass, I shall know how I have tried and never need to wonder again. Like I am sure Oma did. Never will know, understand, why she kept on reading and never took the step to write. Or maybe she did in journals like this. And it is not the writing, but the publishing that is the next step. We’ll see where I end up.


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