It was a day that felt like nothing much mattered.
I didn't even know if anything changing in my life would shift the leaden apathy that nested in the bottom of my throat. Everything I looked at was laced with anxiety. Stale, inadequate memories tugged at the back of my brain.
I was bored with life. Part of me had given up. I floated beyond the need to make it, into an existential drift where my heart's fire dimmed. A restlessness stirred up my energy in agitated coils that pulsed through me in spurts of confusion. Like popping a zit, I'd pile up my resistance until it burst into emotional tantrums.
I was in the middle, past years of entrepreneurial failures and preceding true vision realized. My drive was utterly suspended. Motivation was a ploy put on by canned speakers at events where everyone was forced to dance. I shrank from the thought of having to play extrovert to appease the masculine, old school model of business.
Even inspiration, as I was coming to know it, was much less glamorous. It showed up as a single sentence that hung in my mind and paused my heart. In that millisecond of stopped time, I trusted its significance and opened my laptop.
Listening to my own pulses of meaning was all that mattered anymore. I could no longer pump my ego with the temporary thrill of accolades. The life I wanted was so simple. To live free. Take care of myself well. Write.
I was learning to trust myself.
Tears came in waves of unexplained, densely bundled emotions. I'd cry waterfalls watching a music video or grasping a brilliant movie line. For a heightened moment, I felt tapped into the pure brilliance of the art. It was the best cleansing I'd ever experienced, welling up and cascading out to buoy my energy higher. I was letting loose to make space for the insights that now guided every decision in my existence.
Here in the middle land, I had slowed my own momentum down. A book brewed inside me, and yet, I paused in decided hesitation. Maybe I was getting ready to handle the bigness of what lay ahead. Maybe I had no idea what my soul was up to, and all I could do was follow the sprinkling of impulses I translated as intuition.
I wondered if I was just afraid of everything I assumed accompanied success. Being overly busy, scattered, jet-lagged and overwhelmed. I believed fame threatened my small freedom I constructed within the textured white walls of my one-bedroom apartment.
Could I be found and be free? Could I be successful and still take naps?
Could I do this thing the way I really wanted to?
YTBD. Yet to be determined.