I have had a rather strange week. Strange only in contrast to the week prior, full of professional oddity and the type of strange that has somehow become my norm.
This was an inadvertent, self-imposed variation of a semi-solitary confinement of sorts. I didn’t try to cut myself off from the outside world, save for brief moments of self-supposed wit and charm via the social satellites of love…
I just did.
I’ve mentioned in recent posts that, save for poems and short chapters, I have been a bit at a loss for words.
It’s not that they aren’t there; there are simply far too many. Far too many unfinished chapters and half-started explorations stemming from a mind that moves faster than the hand, whether by ink or keyboard.
I am, by trade and reputation, an emotional, passionate man. I am learning from experience that I am best admired from afar, lest you see the unavoidable truths of the temperament found within me; found within a complex man in search of simple things.
I am, by trade and reputation, a tornado.
But this week, without planning such, my emotion has been vacant, my passion focused and quiet. There have been brief moments of contentment, longing, angst and melancholy, but they only creep out like a soft light emanating from underneath a bedroom door.
Without trying, I’ve spent the week in a cosmic ambivalence, by and large, shrugging the universe off in trade of simple images that say more than my words ever could.
More than they ever should.
Loud images, in a quiet place, my mind focused on nothing but.
It is an artist’s burden to feel so damned much all the time. It allows us to display these emotions, explain them, or at least show the world they exist, so they can feel them too.
Or perhaps, know they aren’t alone.
Without, of course, the privileges and benefits of slowly going crazy as a result.
Emotional ambiguity. To exist in this state for too long is a tragedy for any man or woman. But for me, right now, it’s kind of necessary. Even were it not, I am here nonetheless.
I’ve thought too hard. Longed too hard. Spoke too hard. Loved too hard. Lost too hard.
Sometimes I drink too hard, and perhaps I simply live too hard.
It can make a man tired.
Sometimes, when I feel everything, I need a little time to feel nothing.
It’s a farce. Deep down, I know better.
Hard as I may try, to stop feeling altogether would be to stop living.
And regardless of how one lives, for this brief moment in time, we are alive.
Perhaps this emotional dissidence is merely a temporary calm before a rather large storm.
The biggest blazes all start with a spark, and I am but kindling at the ready.