It feels like I’ve been holding my breath for over a year… almost two now. I’ve been away, plumbing the depths of my soul, making connections with the earth’s spirits, making friends with the faceless. I had thought that perhaps I’d never write another thing in this blog again, I thought that maybe I’d never write anything again. But the itch for communication always comes back. The desire to write, even if it’s not ever read, the thought that it might be ends up being eclipsed by the elegance of fingers drifting across a keyboard.
I’ve seen the stories about computer algorithms writing content in the near future. About travel or food articles being ejected out of a sterile maw, the machine speaking to itself. But nothing will ever match the elegance of the mind firing away, the artistry of a well constructed sentence. It’s that desire to create that makes the whole magickal. We creators are blessed with the inspiration of the universe, galaxies erupting from our firing synapses. We’re a powerful lot. We’re a dangerous lot. And I think as the Western culture progresses, we’re a more rare group overall. Our culture, it consumes everything, every experience, every thought, every blink is something to be monetized.
I lost my way among the twisting cords and pipes of that underworld, our overculture. I had spent so long trying to do the things that other writers told me I needed to do to become a success that the writing actually died within me. My focus was on creating a social media presence, making connections, writing blog posts, posturing as an expert or at least an acolyte on his way. The truth is that we only ever know what our experiences guide us towards. In a culture where so much simple information is so readily accessible, we’ve been driven to ignorance. It’s become harder to be a creative, to hone a craft, time as it is has become more compressed as our entangled social personas consume us, consume the space we used to give ourselves for true development.
All of this is to say that I experienced all of this, and I see a lot of others doing the same. I can’t condemn social media but the environment that it currently thrives in isn’t doing me any favors. I can’t write it off, after all, I’ll probably share this on social media when I hit the Publish button (although becoming more streamlined, more Luddite does have its appeal).
I’ve started to write again, I’ve started to pay attention to those ideas that are constantly pinging across the outer reaches of my mental atmosphere. It’s energizing, I feel the cool air coming back, I feel like I’ve started breathing for the first time in a very long time. It’s terrifying, honestly. But I realize how little I am without it, without that creative impulse… the world is expansive when I’m in touch with that tiny electrical pulse, the subtle heartbeat that propels. I’m happy to feel it again.