He walks
along the empty sidewalk, feeling as grey as the cement passing underneath his
plodding feet. This less than colorful life is not a permanent fixture,
just a temporary mood stemming from his artist soul.
Words are not spilling forth from his vessel hands. He knows it is not a simple case of writer's block because his cooking room is overflowing with boiling words, sentences, and paragraphs. This greyness is of an emotional nature.
Depression is not what he feels. He has visited that dangerous edge too often in the past to not recognize the spiraling darkness. This mood is something else. Something vaguely familiar, but different in context.
His mood, the sidewalk, the sky, the world, has been painted grey by uncertainty. He has put himself out there as a writer after years and decades of writing in hiding. Before, only the closest of the close were subjected to his words in whatever form they took. He would write, they would read, listen, or watch and he was mostly satisfied. Now, over a year and a half of literally opening his words to the world, he isn't certain of where he wants to go with his writing or what he wants from it all. Is it enough for him to entertain or emotionally move an extremely select group of online individuals?
Deep down, in his artist soul, he knows the answer. The only answer any creative person instinctively knows, though it often gets blurred by hollow numbers and empty self-doubt. With this revealing thought, his plodding footsteps become a little lighter upon grey cement, leaving behind the beginning hints of vibrant color renewed…
Words are not spilling forth from his vessel hands. He knows it is not a simple case of writer's block because his cooking room is overflowing with boiling words, sentences, and paragraphs. This greyness is of an emotional nature.
Depression is not what he feels. He has visited that dangerous edge too often in the past to not recognize the spiraling darkness. This mood is something else. Something vaguely familiar, but different in context.
His mood, the sidewalk, the sky, the world, has been painted grey by uncertainty. He has put himself out there as a writer after years and decades of writing in hiding. Before, only the closest of the close were subjected to his words in whatever form they took. He would write, they would read, listen, or watch and he was mostly satisfied. Now, over a year and a half of literally opening his words to the world, he isn't certain of where he wants to go with his writing or what he wants from it all. Is it enough for him to entertain or emotionally move an extremely select group of online individuals?
Deep down, in his artist soul, he knows the answer. The only answer any creative person instinctively knows, though it often gets blurred by hollow numbers and empty self-doubt. With this revealing thought, his plodding footsteps become a little lighter upon grey cement, leaving behind the beginning hints of vibrant color renewed…
Wow...Those words really resonated with me. I think you captured the ambivalence of a writer reaching out to a larger audience. Do we write to please ourselves or to communicate via larger truth to an audience? Who knows?
ReplyDeleteThose are questions I still don't know the answer to, but I keep writing either way.
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