A cabinet without shelves
Or drawers,
A chest collects images.
I have not been writing at all. I think it would be best to just sit quietly with the lapse and accept it as it is.
I will be starting a job tomorrow. With the exception of three days a couple of weeks ago, I have not worked at all in the past two months. It will be good to get out regularly, to make a certain amount of income. I had been hoping that in the silence and inactivity of my "sabbatical" that great creativity would emerge. This was not to be.
I am waiting, waiting for something great to emerge from me. But I think it's best not to expect anything like that. It's a kind of delusion of grandeur, anyway.
I am doing what I am doing. I know it sounds like I'm remiss in my responsibilities as a creative, decisive human, but really what I do seems to me as much a part of the weather as clouds and sunshine. Creating a life is not the active thing we were told it was.
I suppose it could be. There's potential there. I am capable of taking the steps to mine out a niche for myself (other than the unavoidable one I'm already in) - but that would be going against my heart. I feel there's something else besides making a career. I feel like paths aren't meant to be blazed out.
I have no logical arguments for this at the moment. Perhaps I will put something together later. But for the time being, I am drifting.
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