Let me tell you something. Inside me there is a story of the truths untold and the emotions hibernated for years, waiting to be processed. It's an invitation to step up face to face with the truth. With all the things you wanted to scream when you lacked breath. Visions become hazy and I can't focus my thoughts. It all comes at me at once, much quicker than my human brain is able to process. There won't be any tears tonight, I know what's happening. I know my mind's ever changing weathers. I learned how to ride a wave. Images dance in front of my eyes. Images of past, maybe dreams - how do you differente? It's all one world in my mind. Does it matter? Have I arrived? Is now what was supposed to happen? There are people who suffered more and I am not here to argue on who's got it worse. We all have what we consider an idea of hell and some of us lived through it. Especially as children, we are the center of the universe, with only two gods upon us. Denying and being denied our personal truths at this stage leads to major issues and years of suppressed feelings, debilitating far too many of us in the adult life. It's not the time to play the misery game and suck it up. It's the time to let it all out and give it a right to exist on it's own plane. Attachment to the labels that we were given or we gave ourselves only reinforces them. It's good to name of the demon to send him away. Not to make it a center of our attention and let it feed on us.
I am not doing this to gain attention, sympathy, love or anything else. That's what I've been doing all my life - my previous life, before I become old and wise - looking for love and approval. Most of my actions were motivated by potential emotional gain. I wanted desperately to be noticed and loved. I knew I needed to try hard to be accepted and I was ready to fight for that like my life depended on in. Because, in the child's mind, it does. There is more. I do it because I have no choice. It is bigger even than a potential of being laughed at, ridiculed and belittled, like the good old days. These days are over. I am too busy making my dreams come true to wait for someone's permission to live fully. What was causing me headaches ages ago, today seems ridiculous and irrelevant. I cannot deny a therapeutic function of creative endeavors but that's of secondary importance. Of course, I will keep on taking inspiration from my experience and keep trying to express what I believe it's important. Not just for myself but hoping that others will take it and use it for whatever they need at the time.
I am doing all this because I have no choice. Because I must chase these visions, dreams, thought and express them into the world, hoping that someone will hear and maybe even understand them. I want to get closer and go back to the source. It's the strongest desires of all. There is no final goal. There is no destination. All that counts is that endless, wonderful pursuit of Mystery and finding new planes of understanding.
All the pain of discovery of who I am, all the injustice and suffering and different facets of the universe, cruelty of nature and human impulses. Hopelessness, tears, dark despair, they reflect all the pure joy of existence. They are all part of the dance. Colorful, reflective, shiny surface of life and what it means to be alive. Every experience can be transformed into something greater, become an irreplaceable piece of divine puzzle. It's a fuel for art and creative expression. Before I could begin the story on how i was becoming me I had to pick the right medium.
I always wanted to be some kind of performer. Being an actress or a singer, being loved and admired. I wasn't a very self-confident kid, rather a quiet type with a book and peculiar friends. I wasn't popular. What's more, quite early I was being laughed at and ridiculed, mostly for being smart and quiet. I wonder if that's how my classmates at the time saw it. It certainly took it's toll and stayed with me for years after. I used to be picked on for exceeding, being the best at something was gaining not always friendly attention. No wonder I'm procrastinating. Regardless my conscious status, the old wounds must show every now and then. Anyway, I considered a future in many different creative domains. After a short but intense romance with performance art I still think it is an area to explore for me, perhaps not in the form I previously assumed. Many times my introvert nature was getting the better of me and I would to more solitary practices. Since I was a kid I was always either scribbling or doodling something. I started a countless number of journals that I abandoned in the middle – paralyzed by the pressure of new beginnings that were inevitably falling into chaos – I was abandoning them for not being perfect. Just what I was possibly subconsciously afraid of half of my life – being abandoned for not being perfect. Being abandoned for not being perfect. I wonder where that came from. Also I’ve noticed that when the real things were happening: exciting, colorful, engaging I had no time for writing. When I had time, I had nothing to say. I didn’t want to write mundane facts just for the sake of keeping the diary going. So I was slipping into laziness and finally forgetting about it completely. But the need for chasing the racing thoughts was there so I always ended up with some notes. It is funny, years ago I knew I would write an autobiography and I was angry at myself that I haven't already started. I was laughing that all my life hang ups was just gathering a book material. How little did I know back then. How much more there was to live, experience, suffer. Yes, there was a lot of suffering, for someone as young as I was. Having naturally a very chaotic mind I also have a need of putting things into order. That results in hundreds of lists, notes, notebooks. I need to have a notebook with me at all times. I write things down then forget where I’ve put the notes. Being organised doesn’t come easy to me. I spend half of the time producing and catching an endless flow of thoughts, another half trying to make sense of it. Isn’t art an organised chaos after all? Unlimited and abstract creativity but in very real and tangible frames of the medium and its limits. Sometimes i have to make a choice between creating and organizing creation. There simply isn't enough time to do both. Eventually I would like to gather all these thoughts and memories and write them down into one coherent entity. A book? Who knows. Its so weird to dig out things from your past. There is a lot id like to share. I like stories. Reading my notebooks and diaries made me realize that i went a long way and although its a little sad not having recorded everything as it was happening, now i can rewrite it form much more mature perspective. To my horror and my relief most of what I wrote was excruciatingly bad. No point to cry over lost manuscripts. Life and thought are elusive like that. I don't think i will ever run out of the thoughts to share and words to say although sometimes I might choose to remain silent and let the silence speak for itself.
It’s been years that I’ve been looking for a right form of artistic expression for me and my racing mind. I took me another couple of years to fight all the worries and anxiety and finally decide it’s ok to do things, even if they’re not perfect. I spent far too much time trying to get things perfect the first time. An impossible task. Things can only get perfected during the process of manifestation. They rot if kept too long inside our heads. I was turning around in place, bothered by exactly the same questions over and over again. Afraid to take the first step. Finally i had enough. I knew if I kept suppressing the need to express myself I will make myself sick. It is more important than getting things right or facing someone's criticism. Things will not get done by thinking of them. Mistakes are inevitable. As you create, you learn to trust your own judgment, you get the first hand experience of what you want to explore. No one can give it to you. I should really listen to my own advice. I still struggle with it, sometimes i even work through tears, because I know that to create is more important that to feel safe. To create tonnes and tonnes of rubbish is just an inevitable part of the process I need to accept. I wanted a platform on which i could express myself that could be my creative outlet regardless of the final shape it takes. I wanted to allow the journey to happen and let it take me away. A space to grow and explore. A place i would go to to write my story and share pieces of my world with whoever is willing to listen.
For me everything is art and art is magic. You decide what is important. You decide what to pay attention to. You choose who you want to be. Every action and every word is a spell and a ritual. You are the creator of your reality. How you dress, how you move, how you speak - it all creates your personal story. By making changes you can rewrite that story. What you eat, drink, the environment you live in, the things and people you surround yourself with – it all matters and feeds the idea of who you think you are. You can make a conscious choice of it. And be whoever you want to be. Now I know my entire life is a performance. My life is a piece of art, perfected and polished with every day. I am the hero of my journey and what story I choose will come to existence with my each step.
To work with on going floods of mind is no easy thing. When I have a whole day for myself and my projects I can't seem to be able to produce anything, but when it's time to go to bed, the ideas just spring to my mind, the words write themselves and I feel like the master of the Universe? It's been a challenge for me since I can remember - how to harness the brilliance of a spontaneous creation. Whenever I sat down to work I felt forced, blocked, and whatever I made seemed very compromised. The things I am making on a whim, without a second thought, are usually the best. Who am I to argue with the calls of inspiration? Who am I to refuse the divine call? There is either no inspiration or all the inspiration. I do acknowledge, of course, the importance of training and mastery within a chosen domain. Nothing will replace hours of perfecting your craft. Something I probably haven't given enough credit to, usually comparing myself to others and giving up quickly, thinking that excellence is not something I can achieve.
I wonder if I deal with mental blockage or I just need to find a way to work that is the most aligned with my nature. I am trying to understand the hours and circumstances in which I am the most likely to feel "inspired" and most focused and then recreate them. When do I feel like it's the part of life that I dreamed for myself. What if I didn't listen to what they say and actually try to access this divine creativity somehow, spontaneously? What if i could let it flow? Sometimes, when I stop trying, the answers seem to pop to my head. Don't try to achieve the flow. Be the flow. Be the words. You are the words. I'm already writing. It's happening. No, I wouldn't become arrogant to believe that genius alone can guide my pen. I need to polish the words so that the reader can see himself in them.
My technique of writing is very chaotic. There is no technique, really. I just let the words come out of me. When I try to write, nothing makes much sense, it's like I'm struggling against the language. I think language imprisons us, most of the words are a caricature of their meaning and even talking sometimes feels pointless. I must admit it's very challenging to harness these codes. I wing my way through the language and I hope that the audience somehow grasps the intended meaning. Sometimes we are loved not for what we wanted. My language changes, influenced by new words I learn, different environments and whatever I feed my brain with. I speak and think in three languages. It can be confusing, funny, but also broadening the horizons of understanding. Language is slippery. Tricky. Limiting. I do my half of the work. To receive, understand, process, interpret, is another half. It's a miracle we can understand each other at all. Do we? Maybe we live imprisoned in our own idea of reality throughout entire life, not even catching a glimpse of what others really think or feel? How can I know my brain doesn't just translate reality into bits I can digest?
Sometimes I have everything in place. I did my morning routine, I answered messages, I scheduled appointments, I cooked and ate lunch, I cleaned the flat, did the washing, prepared my work station. There was no excuse left. I checked social media five times already, just to be sure I'm not missing out. It started feeling slightly neurotic. Only a bit. Then I sit down to writing, my stomach curled in pain. I stare at the blank document. I look at the clock. Back at the screen. Nothing. I have nothing. I do a lot of staring every day to make sure I don't lose the habit. Also why do spontaneous creative bursts make everything so easy and they rarely ever come when you actually want to sit down and do the thing. No, they come when there is no pen and paper in sight. You have to keep the notebooks ready at all times, in every corner of the room. One cannot be too careful with these things. embrace the chaos of creativity. The thoughts are coming to me in the least of convenient moments, all the time, it can be exhausting, inspiration is there all the time
My brain has just started plotting, cause I almost went to bed early and it just couldn't let me do such a thing. So there I have this great idea, I started doing my research and I realize I must be the one to make these visions come true, since I can't find precisely what I'm looking for. For some reason the night seems to be the most productive time for as long as I can remember. That's when the air is just buzzing with the ideas and everything seems possible. I feel on top of the world and can achieve anything I want. As the night fades away, so does hope. The deeper I was getting into research, the more I was losing my enthusiasm. Then I ended up just sitting here in a black hole of creative despair, rocking back and forth, weeping "it's all been done, it's all been done, nothing to do here". The truth is: there is nothing original under the sun. The only original thought there might have been was the Divine. And since the division of the worlds everything was a build up of previous discoveries. Here it is, thus I spake the truth. But in the morning it all fades away like a dream. All I'm left with are fallen stars that have to be polished and transformed by more earthly means. It is not always an inspiring task. The daily dance between a creative dream and rough reality has to continue its journey across the sky.
Creativity. It's making friends with ever present pain and desire driving you to do more, ask for more, never stop and never surrender. It's a curse. Wonderful, delicious, delightful curse of an intense and colorful life. I wouldn't change this sweet pain for any other. Let us travel. Let us seek. Let us create. Now.