“The whole culture is telling you to hurry, while the art tells you to take your time. Always listen to the art” – Junot Diaz
As the day becomes night and the leaves fall to the ground, the spring turns to summer and the moon becomes full. I look into the night sky and redeem my own freedom. I look into your eyes and see hopeful anticipation for what will most likely end. I touch the grass and sway my feet in the cold, brisk water, with the mountains ever-standing and sturdy in the near distance. I look up to the sky and thank the clouds for their mysterious dance. I reckon that the sun has my back and I know the truth is hiding in the ever shifting wind. I will let my spirit be in flight with words of trust and bitter agony, for the uneasy sway of my mind will never be truly stable.
The distraction I hold in my thoughts, the wandering pain I feel in my gut. These are the motions of my mood and the imbalance of this worshipping time bomb, called life. The ticking that never stops. The voices that never die yet constantly drown my resilience. I disengage my thoughts, and the beauty evolves into words of wise manifestations. I am addicted to the feeling of movement, the struggle of anticipation for the next indulging battle. It is the sorrow that competes with the gratitude. I thank it all, for all of it has taught me and made me poised in times of drought, tough in times of weakness and most importantly allowed me to stray in times of uneasy contentment.
I will be forever grateful for the beauty of imbalance and the mystery of thoughts and feelings that do not belong to me. I will be inconsistent, always uneasy in my practice, but simultaneously consistent in my acceptance for where I will be next. Good or bad. Smooth of bumpy. The ride always continues. The stops vary, our moods change. The end is never truly in our reach, but always a fragmented vision in our mind. The end is near, but never actually near enough. The commitment and the desire will allow me to encourage my own foundation and preach change I hold onto in my thoughts, my own hopeful, creative thoughts.
In order to dig deeper and understand what my creative enemy is I must learn how to fight my independent battles.
I want people to be affected by my words. I want to help and inspire others, and I think sometimes I want instant gratification, in a sense of feeling accomplished and worthy. I want to make a difference, and when I don’t feel that immediately I feel a little disheartened. To overcome this, I think I have to continue being true to myself, my words, and continue respecting my feelings of personal accomplishment. If I write something, and it truly moves me, chances are those words will move at least one more person. Constant personal reminders that “at least somebody read that and felt something” will keep me confident and charismatic.
I write for my independence. I am writing for my independence. My words are what make me wholesomely unique and worthy of freedom. I share my words to prove my independence. To prove my independence from other people, from the media, from the government. I write to prove my independence from people who have told me I Was average. To prove my independence from my own wandering mind. My lack of direct desirable direction holds me back, or more truthful pushes me in too many ambivalent directions. It is difficult to find a substantial and overflowing voice, especially one of independence, when my mind is so turbulent. I feel raw emotions and I feel absolutely redemption for my actions. I want to prove myself and I want to be a target for unanswered questions. Maybe I want too much, maybe I know too little. My ambivalence is my distraction. I want to declare my independence from my lack of direction. My ability to keep my wanderlust, yet form direction, is important to me. I deserve to conquer this because I Deserve to be heard.
It is, as if our basic rights, as humans, as creators and thinkers have been stolen. We are constantly told what the next step is. We are told the coolest clothes to wear or the newest gadgets to own. As humans, we are a lost civilization, and as a writer I feel an undertow of lost progression. I write to keep from drowning, and to stay afloat I thank my unknowingly benevolent future of independent curiosity.