Real life has been a little too absorbing and needy for me to recede into my blissful sanctuary here for some time. An ever-increasing nagging from the voice of practicality and day-to-day reasoning tugs me away from the keyboard even when inspiration is close. This makes me feel a bit edgy, because as the days pass, I fancy that l can feel my ability to introvert, ruminate and write growing sickly and wilted. An untended part of my inner garden (not a euphamism) left in the shadows while light is poured over the boxes to tick and Stuff (capital S, the ‘important’ stuff that society and proprietary want you to do) to get done.
So now my ducks are in a socially acceptable row, and I can’t remember the slightest thing that I wanted to write about. Not a sniff, not a whisper, not a split-second vision, just this deep feeling like I’ve forgotten something important, like I forgot to take my meds, or forgot to lock the door, only it’s not something physical, its something in my subconscious and I cannot for the life of me, converse with those voices today. They seem far, far away. Maybe it’s the champagne talking, but I’m just too exhausted and focused to let the waves of id and animus lap at my fingers. But if you are reading this, my inner self, know that your input is missed.
“dig down, dig down,
I’m not afraid of going deep,
I’ll be the archeologist,
You just have to put your faith in me”~heather nova, the archaeologist