July 18, 2013 by musehick
I don’t often self-censor, but sometimes I do. Sometimes I know that there are things which do not need to be shared which I am thinking because they do not need to be shared with anyone. Sometimes the things I think are so basted in self-loathing and self-doubt that they would poison anyone who reads my words.
Am I as carefully in control of the spoken word? I wish. I think at one time I was capable of bottling things up a lot more effectively until I could sit down in front of a keyboard and work some alchemy on them and turn out fiction or poetry. Now, I am what? A bleeding heart?
I used to be defiantly healthy, and now I seem to be engaging in so many agreements with the failures of my body to remain healthy. It’s bullshit.
I have made myself sick and failed to handle things for long enough. Being ill is no way to build a fiction engine; no foundation upon which to construct an artist who will endure.
If my life is an art experiment directed by my own intentionality then I need to fix the direction of that intention. My life will get better and my art will improve as well. the shakiness has to be at an end, and the healing is done with. Being well is the thing. Being better is the thing. Succeeding is the thing.
Holding back on the negativity is an important step integral to my future growth.