Ah, the blank space. Empty canvas. Clean slate. Call it what you will, but it’s always the same. A pregnant pause of possibility the likes of which no universe existing or yet to exist could possibly contain. It’s pressure. It’s possibility. It’s opportunity. It’s everything, yet it’s also nothing. It’s the most stressful thing you can throw at someone who hasn’t done anything creative in so long they wonder if they were ever really an artist at all or if they dreamed the whole thing up.
This brings us to here. Now. The moment in which I write these words from my home, sandwiched between a gentle giant and a tiny time bomb, biding the time between yesterday and tomorrow, unsure of which I exist in as I try fruitlessly to sleep prior to an appointment I am dreading, have been dreading and will likely continue to dread even after it’s over.
What is this all about, you may well be wondering. I’ll tell you. This is about me. This space. It’s mine. I’m claiming it for myself. A space in which only the essence of myself exists, unfiltered, without remorse, restriction, or the burden of considering anyone else. Where I can explore, grow, blossom perhaps, as me. What will it entail? I’m not sure yet. I am still working that out. I’m kicking things around—proverbial tin cans—as I seek myself in this new, confusing, and horribly unclear phase of life I find myself in.
Perhaps by next post I’ll have fleshed something more tangible out…mostly I just wanted to get these thoughts out and this is the space to do it. There’s much more to say. It’s hidden in the blanks between my words, the hollows of every letter here, but I don’t have the words. It doesn’t translate.