Dusting Off the Keyboard

         My allergies have me mouth breathing like a middle schooler watching a sex scene. Honestly, it’s kind of nice to finally be suffering of something other than my own suppression. The brain fog now being caused by nasal passages of stone instead of my polluted thoughts. Makes me feel alive. Spring is springing. I’ve forced myself into isolation over the past several weeks, waiting for my depression to pass. It is still vaguely looming over me, but I feel it lifting, this time forcing me into an enlightenment unlike one I’ve ever experienced.

          My mind has been so loud and poisonous that the only way to turn down the volume has been to sit in silence, staring at a blank wall until I force it to shut the fuck up. I’ve submerged in this practice for several days. I haven’t been able to enjoy anything: music, television, the sound of people talking, my clothes, eating, drinking, my face, my life. I can’t see the point in any of it. It’s a dangerously dark place. The kind of dark place that makes you scared of yourself.

          This is the first time I’ve been able to write in over two weeks. I was beginning to question whether I’d ever again feel so inclined. Every ounce of creativity and motivation has been drained from my body for a hot minute. I’ve been surviving on autopilot. I still am, in a sense. I’m relying on instinct at this point. Instinct made me decide it was time to completely change my surroundings. I flipped my entire apartment. All the furniture is now arranged facing the opposite direction it was originally plotted, and everything has been stripped down. I spent hours pulling everything off the walls, moving furniture, and cleaning, all the while worrying that I was going to hate the changes and become even more depressed by it. Initially, I was underwhelmed by the effect, but it’s beginning to grow on me and I’m feeling a bit more optimistic. 

          My creative juices are slowly dripping back in. I finally have words and images formulating again. Forcing myself into silent solitary confinement has brought me to a personal revelation. I am a goal-oriented individual, and often to a fault. I constantly obsess over new ideas, setting goals, and how and when to achieve them. And not according to societal standards, but my own unrealistic standard of excellence. I’m my own worst enemy, consistently setting myself up for disappointment. I’ve done a lot of shit my life. I have no chill. So, I’ve come up with a new goal… to not set any more goals. At least for right now. I need to just exist and live. Because, realistically, in doing that, I’ll likely propel myself much further than I would if I continue holding myself back stressing over how and what to do next. 

          I’ve just finished coffee. My newly designed apartment is fogged in the smoke of patchouli incense. The dog is ready for a walk, and I’m ready to get moving. No telling what the day holds, but I’m feeling pretty good about that. I need a Kleenex.