I find it fascinating that I’m trapped in that peculiar vortex where writing for others seems intimidating. It’s akin to that schoolyard bully lurking behind the corner of the building, waiting to push you unexpectedly, just when you’ve let your guard down on the downward sway of the swing set. From feeling so comfortable and at peace with my writing, I suddenly find myself in a shattered glass reflection of my own thoughts. It’s a perplexing state of mind.
I’m not particularly fond of existential crises. They feel like staring and unmoving at a crosswalk, where the “walk” sign keeps repeating itself, and there isn’t a single car in sight. It’s this paralyzing sensation that leaves me stuck, as if there’s an internal cavern within me, blocked and inscrutable. If only I knew how to unclog it, I would. I’m usually more of a “let’s get to the point” kind of person, always mindful that time is slipping away. However, lately, I’ve lost trust in myself – in the things I say, the opinions and perspectives I hold, and the value I bring.
I feel fractured, like I’m yearning for a cave in the heart of Afghanistan. In that cave, a well-stoked fire warms the space, and a colossal boulder blocks the passage out. There, I’d breathe in the earthy scent, press my finger into the cool mud, and smear a dollop on the golden-hued wall. I’d create a simple yet large circle, and as my improvised utensil started running out, I’d replenish it and complete the other half. I’d step back, brushing my hands together, and admire its simplicity, thankful for its presence. It wouldn’t need anything more; it would be just enough.
Sitting down, my back warmed by the blazing fire, I’d contemplate how just a minute earlier, that circle wasn’t there, and now it is. I’d sit with my eyes fixed on it, tracing its every line. I’d ride the curves, work my way up the sides, and reach the top, only to begin again. It would be a fleeting moment, a blend of pleasure and work, a sense of relief all packed into mere seconds. And I’d do it all over again.
Eventually, fatigue would set in. As my eyesight blurred, so too would the lines become hazy, like a puff of exhaust dissipating into the air, scattering into fractured dots that gradually faded away. And then, I’d sleep. And that would be nice.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 