Since Monday I have been painting and have somehow managed to complete these pieces. I am glad to have recovered my creative rhythm at some point although I am still not able to go as deep as I would wish and as I usually could because dayjob duties require me to be within summoning distance.
I've made some movements with my November novel but I haven't updated my word count in the NaNoWriMo site yet.
I feel an ache for holding myself in careful balance, keeping a part of me at the ready to get out of my true element in order to sacrifice time for that which makes this particular world go round -- money. I cannot escape from the need for money. I was not born into a family with property or secure livelihood that could help support or sustain my daily living. I spent every cent I made on my family, particularly my parents. I was driven by a sense of duty and guilt. And I spent on the things that marked me as successful according to the definitions of the society I lived in. I did not know any better and no one immediately close to me was in any position to halt my downhill snowball roll into the pit of false happiness.
I was hungry before and I fed myself with junk, spent my money on placebos and temporary tranquillisers to soothe the unnameable aches that surged from the shadows of my self.
I am hungry now, but I know what I need. But I no longer have the money I used to have because that was the price of knowing.
I survive on instinct and intuition now. My empty hands are learning to work with what is invisible. I become abundant in ways very few will understand or appreciate.
I am hungry everyday. But I am learning to grow my own food instead of trying to look for a convenient prettily packaged thing that promises instant miracles. Such things are always too good to be true. I should know. I used to work in the very places where those promises were crafted.
I am hungry, but I have never been so alive.