‘It’s the ebb.’
It is an insufficient answer, but does manage to gather it all together. Perhaps in my writing I’ve demonstrated the ebb, or left trace that you’ve picked up upon. Those around me know it. It’s the killing cold, or rather the numbing beauty of sameness - balance unbroken by passionate thought.
I call it the ebb. It fits. Tides rush in, they recede - nature fades from summer to winter, pausing only sometimes for breaks in between, a delicate balance before summer heat or winter cold takes over. I’ve often wondered if I, too, break for the seasons - but I, however, am not so disciplined as nature and find no schedule upon which to depend. It comes and breaks upon me.
Days. Weeks. Months. Years.
It is no depression where everything becomes effort, or thoughts of my departure from Earth begin to sound good. I just cease to feel as deeply. My passion evaporates like a well running dry - able to sustain only drops, where before there was a flood.
In this time, I gather great amounts of unfinished - creative - works, and they sit until I delete them in disgust, or the flow resumes. Work, it does not suffer. Although there is less of it, blissfully, it thrives in this period where budget cuts become easier to do and people become just a little more expendable.
I would tell you that I long for an evenness and it would taste a lie. Sometimes the comfort of great anger, or great indifference is soothing - there is warm comfort in the heat of rage; cool relief in the filters that leave only indifference. In evenness there is uncertainty. In uncertainty, fear.
I loathe uncertainty, and I fear that which I am capable - when passion compels, or logic demands constantly, back and forth. Not knowing the answer. Not predicting ahead. Changing like a breeze. If I depend on no one but myself, in that tide, who serves as my compass?
Maybe it is fear. Maybe bravery is reserved for those who don’t predict risk weeks -no, years- in advance. I must know. In the ebb, I am my compass I know how I will react. In the excess, I am my compass, I know how I will react.
In both, the balance - I am afraid of it.
Comments
I’ve read this posting several times. I suspect I’ll read it several more to ferret out each nuance. You’ve talked of something quite profound that most of us say we yearn for at the same time we deny its discomfort. Balance is fine in small doses but rarely offers an avenue to satisfaction, reflection or growth. It is not just sameness, but stagnancy. Without movement in some direction, we atrophy; grow mold; rust; the spark at our center smothered by insipid repetition. Fear of constant balance is our rational voice against nothingness.
Well. I never thought you had one real single fear. I suppose that is just one more thing for you to conquer.
The beauty of change is that it happens at all.
The cold makes me feel so much better. Maybe because more of me is frozen than I expected, so I am a bit more solid when the air is frigid and the snow is falling.
Like Frosty the Snowman.
i don’t think bravery is reserved for those predict risk. Ask anyone of submissive personality, especially those who fear pain, yet have a decided penchant for sadists. We predict risk on daily basis, predict doom well in advance, live willingly in its shadow.
No. Bravery is reserved for either the selfless or the stupid.
As to the compass — even passing ships need tools for navigation. Unless, of course, they are anchored.
elise
In evenness there is uncertainty. In uncertainty, fear.
Yes. It’s the indifference that is so deeply numbing. Great rage, fear, anger, or an even deeper pain would be a welcome thaw to this frozen emptiness; this abysm. Growing Pains, or Frozen Assets? It’s all the same to me. Spring seems so far away when one is square with the blackness of the inner sanctum…unsure of where the road may lead; uncertain of release. The hollow is so consuming, impenetrable and seems forevermore, in the absence of said compass. The changing face of the soul deepening; the changing landscape of the seasons (of life), is my crossroads (and we all know that story). Your articulation is beyond measure and deeply kindred…Thank You.
As to the compass — even passing ships need tools for navigation. Unless, of course, they are anchored.
elise
~Beautifully said.
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