I am writing every day. I am filling in passages of Winter Light I did not feel like writing years ago. I left empty spaces. Well, creativity and discipline do not always go hand in hand, and I can forgive her for leaving me the hard stuff to write when I remember how glorious it felt to stay late in my room with a little light burning, with as little understanding of the science studies that fill my days as now, writing the dramatic scenes that delineated Winter Light.
I am writing a little every day as I revise. Perhaps half a page.
I have found little interesting reading lately. I have tried many things, but nothing occupies me for long. I feel some small passion for The Mysteries of Udolpho, but nothing else worth mentioning.
I tried earlier this week to start a poem. I am sort of thinking about what I can contribute, my own vision of happiness. I am most complete when I forget myself, when I am no longer male or female, or human, when I am air and trees and light. I thought of describing the practice of this forgetting, this being. In this forgetfulness, there is no more conflict, envy, loathing, resentment, fear. There is only love.
I have thought in my more alert moments about how to exist in enchanted beauty in my sometimes narrow and troubled life. My greatest struggle I would say is sleep. Not wanting to. Hating to, in fact.
I have created some visualizations or incantations to help. Telling myself I will look better in the morning if I sleep more isn't enough. Sleep is enshrouded in fairy tales, and I wrap myself in those dreams when I close my eyes. I also finally have a perfect soft teddy bear that I stuffed myself, from Pirate Coffee Shop.
I have noticed, my sleep is increasingly troubled, and I wonder if it is one of the struggles I will face with age. We all wonder where aging will take us. I only hope I can be brave and face challenges, and learn to better express my visions of beauty and truth.