THE WALK OF TRUTH

I am loathe to admit that I muse with the never ending notion that my existence is stale, and my time is misused in a lazy and unproductive manner; a theory further enhanced by certain nameless beings orbiting my aura. This fiercely nagging loop causes an undue amount of stress, pain, and a deep sense of worthlessness to the world. 

I am 25 years old, and was asked just the other day how I am putting aside my funds for retirement. Retirement? Retire from what? The only things I am interested in doing are the things I am doing now, the things I will continue to do indefinitely, the things that breathe life into an otherwise dim lit drag of task following task; broken up only by the respite of sensational moments, be it bliss from creating, or of that which is equally magical; devouring delicacies of heightened palatability. Black coffee. Pastry. Heaven. 

I rock between the cross-sounding voice that comes at me both verbally and internally to get a normal job, to grow up, to get practical; and the more honest voice to stay firm to my path, to write, to make film, to dance, to draw, to indulge. Out of sheer stubbornness the latter tends to beat out the former, but the battle has yet to cease. 

Only today it occurred to me that this near catatonic state that can overwhelm and often debilitate me is of some profound use to the core of my thin pillared bones. I have had the ‘normal’ jobs, I have tried to fit in to the average mold, only to be chewed up and spat out and sat right back down in the same position I’m at now; a place of some deep knowingness that where I am at is in fact just where I need to be. Perhaps this sometimes aimless nothingness that encroaches at the blackened edges of my vision and seeps into my pores is the springboard from which everything that I do can manifest. Perhaps this is the entire purpose of writers block, of mental health days, of vacation. In this fluster of frenzied focused, workaholic, busy bodies, the room to dream can be seen as a negative, but maybe it’s not. Maybe I fail at everything that seems like hard work, and goes against the grain of who I am because I am meant to pursue the things that feel right, and true, and dare I say it; GOOD. 

Oh, the pathology; It’s an almost guilty relationship that I have with anything that seems at all enjoyable. If I am not running from something, then I must be doing it wrong. No pain, no gain, right? Is that how I want to live my life? No. Who knows how many days I have left? The future is uncertain, and the only thing I have for sure is my time right now, and I want to be happy now, not suffer for the un-promised future. It can be hard to tune out the voices that don’t align, but the more I read and listen to artists who I admire, the more I am enlightened to how similar their struggles against the beaten path to which the majority adheres are to my very own. This brings me comfort. This calms my neuroses, if only for a small and sacred time. 

I want to let go of the push back from others and myself to follow a more traditional role of a proper human being, and yet I know that even that discussion, and difference of opinion further strengthens the one that hits closest to home. In a way, the more I disagree, the stronger my clarity and sense of self become; yet the exhaustion of defending my ground can be relentless.

A double edged sword.

A part of me even feels for those who tell me off, for I’ve come to know that my dedication to my own wisdom triggers the part of them who wishes they could touch hands with their own untainted truth. I give credit to my therapist for both pointing this out and cheering me on.

I am grateful to my mother, my best friend Emily, and some beautiful artistic heroes of mine whom I’ve grown blessed to call my friends, for seeing me through these times, and always campaigning for me to continue on the road less traveled. Without them, I’d surely be lost, and although it may be true that I’d eventually come around to it on my own, it would be a hell of a lot harder, and a hell of a lot longer a journey.

Thank you, my loves. I hope you know your worth.

“Artists are always being lectured on their moral duty, a fate other professionals—dentists, for example—generally avoid,” she observed. “There’s nothing inherently sacred about films and pictures and writers and books. ‘Mein Kampf’ was a book.” In fact, she said, writers and other artists are particularly prone to capitulating to authoritarian pressure; the isolation inherent in the craft makes them psychologically vulnerable. “The pen is mightier than the sword, but only in retrospect,” she wrote. “At the time of combat, those with the swords generally win.”

Margaret Atwood

written by cass