A line in the sand

A line in the sand

I am livid. I need not tell you why. I just am. This blogpost is not though a rant, but a brood over why I have come to be in this state at this moment. It marks a line in the sand for the certain part of me that allowed my self to reach this point. From here I will return to that place where I was all too recently and rediscover what is important to me.

The mere fact that I have not blogged since August, must tell you something. I hadn’t realised it had been so long; a cliché, I know. The time between then and now has flown by; not because I’ve been having fun, as they say, but because I have been distracted. What that distraction is, I shall not utter, but it has been a burden on my soul. As I write, I cannot think what I have done since August, other than brood and stupor. The inertia I’ve experienced has not only affected this blog, which is the least of my woes; it has also bled into all parts of my (well)being. I reach each weekend, as I have right now, only to find I’ve made no plans to do anything, and discover I lack the will for spontaneity. The joy I had acquired just earlier this year is gone. Yet outwardly, I put on the guise that masks my true ambitions, not only to others, but also to my self. I have become the proverbial clown in the travelling circus. I am no longer the ring master.

So what am I to do. If I am to rediscover that joy, something must change; another cliché, but surely it is just so because so many of us experience such a lost sense of self. I know what I must do, but how I do it is important. To return to that place is easy; in a sense, I am there right now, but only momentarily. What I must find is time – time to read, moments to ponder, and occasions to draft, sketch, write. I buy books that lie unread, I have scribbles I never return to, and I have ideas waiting to go on the page.

Whether or not I rediscover the time I need, and the joy I long for will perhaps be evidenced in the frequency of my blogging, or maybe the content of my posts. It may too be found in my other outputs, and my general demeanour. If I fail, I will be disappointing those who surround me, those who care, those who instil faith in me. Most importantly, and this is my final cliché, I will be letting down my self. I have, on a wall, scribbled “if nothing else, be authentic”; yet only just this week I peeled away the wallpaper of post-it notes that had built up and hidden it. I had neglected that diktat and taken on bad faith. This existential line in the sand acknowledges that I have reached this point, and tells me not to go on. It is not though a point of no return (oops! another cliché), but a point of departure back to where I was. This detour was not necessarily a wasted journey; I will return more determined, with a stronger will to be the me I want to be.


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