I’m trying to write more, but it’s tough to get into the groove of it. I think the key to succeeding as a writer is to create a space of safety for the reader. I tried to write an entry on Sunday and it felt so hollow. I had to close my laptop and forget about it. This entry feels tough to write as well and I’m not sure if it will land in my graveyard of drafts.
I’m getting back into the creative swing of things and my interest in photography is reawakening. I recently saw a reddit post where someone thrifted a point and shoot analog camera, bought the cheapest film they could find, and proceeded to create ethereal images of New York. They were far from perfect, imbued with the energy of experimentation. It felt off the cuff though, and fresh.
I spent most of last night curled up in a little ball crying into my pillow. It felt weird to cry like that, mostly because the last time I felt so reduced was when I was younger, a teenager. Adulthood always seems to pull me into the opposite direction, a stiff stoicism that lives in denial of pain, of reality. Everything is fine, I can handle this.
I can’t figure out if adulthood is easier or harder. I tried to put my finger on why people run from confronting their trauma, and I realized it was because when you confront trauma, you take responsibility for it. Trauma is a burden given to you, but not one that you chose to receive, and not one that you were responsible for acquiring. It’s the burden of someone else’s debts. It’s the feeling of being trapped by a series of circumstances beyond our control.
I watched Interstellar this weekend, I also had lamb liver. I texted my friend about the liver “It gave me more energy. It didn’t taste bad, but it wasn’t the greatest either.” I felt the same way about Interstellar. It’s parting gift to me was the recitation of Dylan Thomas’ poetry. This seems apt as I swung between hurt and creative inspiration. “Do not go gentle into that good night, Rage rage against the dying of the light.”
a soft death 