Having started off on a good note this morning, I wanted to make myself proud today by practicing what I have claimed to learn.
Picked up a pointed pen again after more than a month and wrote.
Then I picked up a brush and painted.
And I kept close touch with the tribe, and made a show of my choice to create today across all social media.
It feels good, to slip back into the rhythm of making.
It is a different kind of sensation, to make and create out of something other than the inspiration of being in love. To find sufficient the soft attachments formed with dysfunctional geniuses and too-attractive villains.
A well put-together soundtrack is enough to trigger all the false memories -- imagined meetings and deliciously slow unfolding dramas. Enough to ignite the necessary fires to spice a poem or a painting or a chapter.
There is an avenue I want to explore further, beyond this bright happy eccentricities. A bit of venturing into the more shadowed paths. Feel the dead-end walls for secret doors. I could never fully let myself enter the labyrinth. Because I wasn't ready, or worthy, or maybe even because I was somewhat afraid.
But I am on a winning streak.
I want to try.