I've been sharpening my pencils for a year, looking for any excuse to avoid writing, to avoid making music, to stay away from my desk, from any of that failure-tinted imagery that once enlivened me. I've grown stiff despite my youth, sitting in the same place for long enough that moss has begun to grow in the places my body meets the ground. Old and abandoned cobwebs hang between my fingers.
But no more. My pencils are sharp enough. Even the dull ones will make a mark.
Let's burn off these cobwebs and get back to work.
Each morning, I will write three pages (750 words) longhand, without stopping. The pain in my hand will be enough to warm me as we move into winter. May my heat scorch the world around me.
I became creative because I loved the works of others. I will return to the museums and works of art that once galvanized my creative passions, and I will seek out heretofore unexperienced texts and places that may do the same.
I will actively cultivate an attitude on non-judgmentalism toward the works I create in the short term. My fingers are stiff and my mind is out of practice, and it is only by working my way though this period that I will be able to make incredible things. For now, I must not allow myself to look unkindly on the products of my effort.
Already I can feel the light returning to my senses. Give me time, and I'll give you magic.
Photo by Paul Theodor Oja from Pexels
