It’s not yet 7am and I’m awake. The gym is beckoning, if nothing more than the allure of delicious distraction. Distraction. Distraction from writing and the incessant anxiety plaguing me. Yes, even at such an early hour. My imagination is working hard conjuring up a mixed pot of alternatives, suggesting that my anxiety will dissolve at the gym at about the same time when my muscles begin to beg for mercy.
I blame my imagination for this chunky slew of anxiety that's riddling my creative prospects. It’s my imagination who constantly toys with the idea of early rising for writing. Dipping the idea into a pool of glorious advantage, despite personal history pointing to the contrary. Honestly, early rising has never really been my style. I’m more of the just one more chapter, oh shit, it’s 2am kind of woman.
Including writing in my daily routine is often fallible as I’m not particularly fond of regimentation. Some days I look over at my moleskin sitting lonely and expectant on my bedside drawer, sending taunting whispers my way and I desire nothing more than to pick her up, throw her violently across the room. Our shared relationship flirting in-between both raging and wonderful. For every page I spinelessly tear out at her seams, is a thread of words she has aggressively tore out of me. Together, we engage in a heartbreaking romance with one another. Typically though, all hate is forgotten, resentment instantly dissolved by my needy reliance. Accurately put, my desperate need to declutter my twisted insides across blank pages.
I love writing simply for the sake of writing. Writing prevents me from tunneling into the depths of overwhelm when emotionally weighted thoughts fire at me with serrated edges. Take fear for instance, fear can take a stubborn hold over me, emanating strident cockiness. Despite the myriad occasions fear and I have acquainted ourselves with each other, I’m yet to understand fear. Therefore, I cannot tolerate its presence. Often, fear refuses to take leave, further assuring me that its only intention is to be a soul crushing, arrogant asshole.
Fear flings toxins my way hopeful of breaking me down. Each thought conjured up by fear is coated in it’s own illness inducing pesticide, possessing only a tiny cautionary label among its contents. I’m not always successful in fighting fear, nor am I always able to comprehend why fear chooses to niggle away at me. I devise my own theories, although most of them are futile without the confirmation of certainty, and you just can't replay these frightening scenes over and over in your mind without turning into a crazed lunatic.
And so I write, hopeful that writing will provide sufficient mental clarity. I write. I write for release. I write. My pen in hand, I write until my fingers beg for respite. I write myself free.