I wish I had claws, or wrist slits from which to shoot web. I see myself slipping loose briar's in anger, or just to scare someone I don’t like. I look all the time for peak understanding, a state of elevated grace from which to gawk at people and understand their strides without being one of them. With age I imagine myself growing into what I most admire, a self sufficient adult, dependent on no-one but my own capabilities. Most of all I imagine being happy with this.
I put a lot of pressure on myself to write well, to be better than six months ago, and to be the best of all, if I am honest. But I read other journals, brief self-proclaimed ramblings, and excuse myself another night of labour at the keys. I am not so good or stubborn to think I should keep up the pace, nor do I want to stop. The exhilaration and invigoration of finishing something to be proud of until bedtime is addicting but, when others are clearly more talented and deservedly get praise, how can I find fresh excuses?
I believe this time is important though and my hands agree. They are yet to complain even when I portray them as two-dimensional characters. There is a part of my brain also which seems to exist to taunt and dangle hope. From behind a cloudy shower curtain it shows me something I know to be beautiful even though obscured. As a part of me I don’t doubt the impulse to be transcendent in work but is it worth the years of toil for anything less?
I feel clearly a change of fate. What I want is achievable, sooner than I may think, and what’s stopping me is not a lack of talent exactly, but a sense of doubt, a darkened path. I’m pissing about. This post is pissing about. I know what to do but it is just hues and smudges on glass for the moment. It’s revealing slowly the correct way. My life between thumb and forefinger. There is a squeeze. Elements will be culled from routines and I will no doubt become more of a curmudgeon but I find this acceptable. It should be more surprising what I will let go off.