I feel as though some time ought to be spent re-connecting with my poetic self, the space that I used to exist in frequently but, as of late, am so removed from. I have been thinking a lot about poetic space, what it means to write, particularly where that writing comes from. For me, there is always a sort of second world occurring behind this one, the more amplified, stimulated version of this world. It is where I get all of my creative energy from, a world that reminds me of a really good mushroom trip, actually; when all of the colours are bold and everything people say is full of something worth listening to – which is funny, because it is what they are saying all of the time.
Since I am working two, technically three, jobs right now I have been more approaching life as something to get through. I recognize the necessity of working like this right now, in order to pay for my trip this summer, and so I am pushing through. However, this got me to thinking about: if I am not connecting to the world through writing, which basically serves as my main function for channeling emotions, then what does that mean for me, in general? What space am I existing in otherwise? And what does it matter to writing? Where does the second world go? It kind of worries me because I think that a lot of people exist in this regular, day-to-day life of not connecting and not taking in their surroundings and then that eliminates poetry and what happens to people when they eliminate poetry, or the arts (on a side note: this randomly reminds me of this David Foster Wallace speech; this is only part of the speech and listening to the whole speech is worthwhile)? What I have noticed is that since I am not writing frequently, especially considering I used to write every single day, I have developed a fear of writing. I want to sit down, I want to create, but there is a wall and before I even do it, I think, there are millions of other things I could be doing right now and let’s do them. I am also trying to figure out how to balance my life with the passions I am interested and trying to establish how much space writing can have. I always feel that I am failing as a writer because I seldom go to readings and I am definitely not part of the scene here…and yet, how can I be when there are other things happening too? And what is my responsibility here? And how can I exist in all of these worlds?
The less I connect to the world around me, the less I want to, and the more often I say I only want something light to read right now and people accept it because it becomes understandable to not want to take on too much thought, too much weight to carry around. Connecting with the “true” world is a heavy, exhausting thing. When I connect to that space to write, I can feel all of the beauty and everything affects me but that is not always good. Once, for months and months, I was stuck in this space – I couldn’t stop writing and I couldn’t stop seeing everything as these really intense, beautiful things and I was so enmeshed in my surroundings all of the time; I thought I was going to lose my mind. I wanted to stop writing but I couldn’t shift my perspective. I couldn’t make it stop. But now I am not there at all and I am not making any contributions to the world, it seems. What is the point of existing and interacting with life, taking on new knowledge, if I am not going to re-produce and interpret it in some way? Through writing, one recreates human experience but also, one can also bring to light pieces of the truth, of the things that matter. I don’t feel that I am doing that at all right now, even though I am being a productive member of society. It seems like, in the end, being a productive member of society has very little worth, even though on most days it seems like the most necessary thing. I guess the key to combining the two worlds is the act of creating, through poetry, art, or music, or whatever acts as a tool of expression. I guess what I am saying is that I need to start writing again.