Dear Diary,
The silence of my healing pens is echoing in the hallways of my now calmer mind. The end of March and the beginning of April sparked a grey mood that drained the joy out of the slow moments of life. I have been hiding in plain sight clinging to seasonal grief and recurring mild depression.
Consistency might be how I undo the constant doubts that keep dragging me back to a place of distancing myself from my art but I am a human being who bows to fear of judgement one too many times.
Sad, right?
That even as words swim in my mind every second, the stench of my guilt can suffocate the life out of their depth. My unfocused pens won't let me wield them while still holding the space for my awakened demons sometimes and these last several days have been exactly that.
As the reality of seasons changing sinks in, the patience to embrace these wild expectations I am yet to meet is growing thin. My inner man has a demanding mentality that preys on my perfectionist and her crippling procrastination.
You can call me the struggling scribe.
Every day, I welcome a new day thinking that I can juggle the roles I play currently and still find ample time to tailor a piece that might help me shed a layer of my pain while drained of the overwhelming shame.
That rarely happens when I am in a dark place and that irritates my remedy seeking spirit as it is like having a path to freedom and still managing to get lost in the chaos of day-to-day responsibilities.
I keep saying that I want to transition to being here more often but what holds me back is the understanding that this account is yet to provide a stable income. The rent is waiting and so are the school fees and I still trying to work my way around everything thanks to insane inflation.
Behold the art of singlehandedly financing my brood.
The depth of my shallow wallet has been unintentionally exposed by my way with these words and I am still working to launder that reputation. Now as the hour dilutes the heaviness of the season, I am back to striving to strike a balance between my obligations and my art.
wambuku w.
