Nothing quite as bewildering as feeling like a stranger in one's own life...
I may have had an insight yesterday, prompted by who knows what random event -- I think I'm having a severe bout of creative constipation. Or, maybe it would be more correct (and perhaps a little less unpleasant) to call it creative anorexia, as there's deliberate willfulness involved.
I get creative ideas by the bushelful. I have materials aplenty. I have sufficient energy and time. And yet, I consistently dig in my metaphoric heels, and refuse to employ any of the above assets.
I rationalize this stubborn, willful squandering of time and opportunity by looking around me, at the ever-dwindling amount of free space in any of the several work/storage spaces John is so enduringly patient to support. Why add to the accumulation?
But this self-denial has, obviously, extended even to creative endeavors that don't take up actual space (that I know of) -- to wit, this blogue itself. But again, I feel as though I've somehow drifted into a life that seems oddly familiar, but isn't really mine. And, like someone living in a rented residence, I feel disinclined to make much of an investment in an environment that's not really my own.
But, for whatever it's worth, and as it's New Year's Day -- the traditional time for making vows and pledges and promises -- I'm going to make every effort to follow my own Lenten discipline, and write a blogue entry... every day, for the coming year. Even if it's just a single word. (Like that's going to happen)
No guarantees as to content, or amusement quotient.
One down, hundreds to go...
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