...dear diary, my wish to stay at the feet of my inkpot and let it wash away my seasonal worries is sometimes taken away by the weight of my parental responsibilities partially enabled by my perfectionist artist or better yet procrastination.
On the days that I can't bleed, my wounds leak in the wrong places and my soul can't help but find itself slipping into a deep state drowning my ability to express myself creatively. Nothing is more irksome than when that fog hovers over my artistic demeanour.
I flip through the hours of those days whilst striving to stitch my words as they play hide and seek with my distracted attention. Writing is as hard as it is easy and patience is it's an unmatched pillar or so such has taught me.
And it is not that writing completely leaves my essence behind, it is just that those are also the times my drafts get a tone of what should have been my published work with pieces I felt were too raw for anyone else.
There is a village of stanzas and paragraphs that speak volumes when I sink to the bottom of the unexplored seabed and sit in their silhouettes. Now and then, I revisit them and live their truth through some dark pieces but I sometimes choose to simply let prose mend where it can.
To write is to breathe for me but I have to work for the air in this regard. And work for it I do.
I endure the demeaning attitude from my inner critic every time I dip the tip of my pen in ink and I have to fight through her comparing standards and doubts before I free any of my pieces from her dungeons.
If I stand firm and long enough in my defiance, I can feel the shame of questioning my poet fade into the magic of penning rhythmic remedies for broken souls. And from my verities shrine, I sing and wait to see if anyone else might relate to my human experience.
Dear child of the earth and the moon
Come with me
Where flowers are
Waiting to bloom and miracles waiting to happen
A place beyond these rules and expectations
That gifts broken souls
With newfound courage to embrace what is
And the belief that
Everything has a season.
...wambuku w.
