the winding path

 Sometimes I have to remind myself I am allowed to flounce to and from my task, my writing, taking breaks as frequently or as infrequently as I like. That I needn’t remain glued to my chair if it ceases to serve me and my purposes. The routine beat into me through years of schooling is a heady one, one that has outlived it uses. 

I write better without restrictions, but convictions. I’ve spent much of the week writing whatever was occupying brain space, rather than acting like a stubborn bull. Sometimes I stare at the empty page, and it becomes a punishment rather than a joy. That's when it's time to get up and walk around. Or to stop fooling around and write what’s actually on my mind. It has resulted in a number of pieces that will likely never see the light of day. However it has made the productivity of working on my book sky rocket. 

I will say this however, these things I’ve written that I more than hesitate to share, I find them to be well worded and gut-punching profound, honest. I’d like for them to be seen, but only by those who wouldn’t know me, those who would find my face a mystery. I wouldn’t like to be seen with my words, but I would like others to see them. 

Could be something about how the artist will hate the art only because it looks like they made it. Though I think in this case I simply long to remain anonymous, a shadow sliding notes under the door, nothing more. 

It’s meant I’ve written twice as much this week than the one before it. For every thousand words added to the count of my book, another thousand are written about whenever is lurking about my brain. It’s almost as if I am my own worst distraction when it comes to story drafting. So writing the other stuff out of the way as proved more than useful. I’ve slept fitfully, though that could be the cause of any number of things. 

My brain is not a linear place, it is pitfalls and cliff faces, forests and oceans wide, it only has sense to the one holding the map. I forget sometimes. I wasn’t cut from a premade stencil, my form and function was chipped steadily out of stone. Refined and oh so delicate. It give permission to write in a similar fashion. To be strange about it. To be strange as long as it works. 

Who cares, I’m the only one watching. So I’ll take this winding path, its oddities and all. There need be only the witness I craft, and so I’ll walk. Walk and crawl, and perhaps, if the sun is still shining, I’ll dance.