Another day as a writer who's not writing

Reflections of a Witch who's bursting with ideas and leaking inspiration.

To start with, this is not me speaking but my Higher Self.

In all I do, I am constantly reminded of my reach for perfectionism, a thing which does not exist surely in its entirety as we perceive it. I reach for a thing with no name, only a feeling, a sensation of honesty and critical thinking.

Each time I fall short, I am buffeted by feelings of inadequacy.
“Ahh, surely just one more try.”
“Ahhh, another one bites the dust.”
“Ahhh, surely another day I will get it right.”

It is exhausting to be at once someone so sure of her capabilities, yet constantly falling short in an attempt to reach and pursue them. How can I attain greatness unless I fall? How can I overcome the triumph of previous accomplishments? In the moment, these voices seem loud, obnoxious, overwhelming in their simplicity; “pursue” “pursue” “pursue.” What am I running from? What is truly so obnoxious about the way I am and have been living that I must flee to escape it?

I do not wallow in the past; I marinate in it, sauced in it, encompassed by it, seasoned and flavored by it. I run away in terror as teriyaki stains of my past streak down my legs and body. Something so delicious once becomes the thing that haunts me, and I am entirely too saturated and seasoned by it.

In my pursuit of honesty do I flee desperation, do I flee not knowing. In my dissolution of truth, I fall victim to the greatest fallacy of all: that we can ever become something greater than what we are; for in sheer fact of knowing that we are capable of it, do we become it, even if only for a moment, and if in fact I am capable of becoming it, well, then it is no greater thing than I but simply “I.”

“I must become that which I am capable of becoming.”

A useless statement, filled with drudgery and toil.

“I must enjoy that which I am.”

A productive statement, with healthy amount of ego, that saturates the soul in knowing but does not drown in overwhelming sauce of flavor.

“To be or not to be…to become.” That is the question.

That which I ponder at now I grasp loosely at as if straws weigh me down, as if they might break my very back. What am I so afraid of that I cannot be that which I am? That which I am now is also currently a version of myself, one that sees the light of day daily and does not shy away in fear.

I am the sum of choices that have made me, and yet more deeply than that I am the fear which has crippled me at times. There is a vulnerability in my words and tones that angers me. “Who are you to be so soft!!” I shout at myself, unfeeling, uncaring. Yet this is the version of myself which has pulled and carried me through.

I have to be grateful to my past for that which it has shown me. The greatest humiliation ritual of all is to be known and seen; that which we are becoming is ever-fragile in a state of development, yet in polishing do we all gawk and admire its beauty. “How wonderful,” they say, “How wonderful!” at aaalll these little pieces of me which are and have been so carefully assembled for their amusement and enjoyment.

There is struggle in toil, but there is pleasure in it too. May we find the pleasure which seeks us always, casting away the “hard way” and finding pleasure in the little things; for we are comprised almost entirely of little things, which compounding make bigger things, such that any one tiny indecision or moment of indulgence is not enough to send us packing on our way, but to inspire us to something altogether bigger, larger, and more decadent than we have ever seen.

Until next time.