Writer's Creep

I am not blocked; I am merely slowed.

I am editing as I go here. Well, here too. And here.

Should have edited that last paragraph...

I am slowed by a concern that I won't write something significant. Enough. That it won't measure up to something worth reading.

Slows me down, but I am not stopped. I can keep going. And I will.

In theory, at least.

"I'd rather be sleeping" is the bumper sticker for my car. Rather than do just about anything. Certainly rather than writing. But writing serves me better. And it serves others.

That is, as long as I get some sleep. Sleep is important medicine, especially for me. I've just been taking too much medicine lately.

At least 12 hours a day. Not by prescription, but by default. Can't hurt anything if you're sleeping. Can't really feel all those painful, yearning to feel good thoughts. Dreams are a crapshoot, but they're better than depressed reality. At least there's a chance you'll feel good. And feel really good.

I've had a few dreams lately where everything feels in place. Like the puzzle of my life has all its pieces and are fit comfortably together. All feelings are good and genuine, not fabricated by medications. And the world, the universe, et al is at peace, in congruence, in accordance. The dream does not make sense to the awakened person, but it is in full sense for the awakened mind. It feels right, logical, perfect. It is.

To try and capture it in words is to chase one's tail. The words splatter and sputter, missing the mark. It's impossible to catch the flowing river. Even the water slides through your grip.

Life is dynamic, organic. Growing, moving. It's not static like a photograph. Words trip and fall when they try to run along side of reality. They cannot run with the river.

But we try anyway. We long for that rush of endorphins that comes with riding the wind, that we feel as we approach the evasive, morphing truth. So we parse the images and flavors that we remember, and try to recreate the perfection that we tasted in the moment.

I remember something about a wise individual stating that life is about chasing three main shadows. And then he demonstrated, pointing out subtle shifts in lighting conditions, how we follow these changes, both intuitively and mechanically. There is meaning which entices us along our path. We choose the path, but it chooses us as well.

So why must we chase these shadows? Why are we even interested in them?

The mystery is what interests us. We ask questions. We want to know the truth. Our questioning stokes the fire that burns, the fuel in the locomotive engine. The all powerful Why? The almighty How? We want to know. And how.

So we scratch. We stretch. We ponder. We wander. We wonder. We try to ascertain. We come up short.

But that doesn't stop us. Not for long.

Sometimes, it feels like you're stuck. But then you breathe in, you breathe out, and you realize you're still moving. The electrons are still swirling at amazingly hard to fathom speeds. There is change on so many levels it's astounding.

So even when you choose to check out, stop off, wind down, nap out... you still are churning. You're still working.

You don't have to prove it to anyone. As long as there is life, there is movement. And if there is movement, there is an avenue for change. If you're alive, you can't be blocked. A block is but an imagined prison.

You can imagine yourself a key to unlock the cell door. There's always a way out.

Let yourself go.