Letting Go (or Trying to Quit and Failing)

How I long for a medium grand enough to do justice to my inner torment. – Jane Lane, Daria

There is a solidness that has crept up on me. It is a luminous realization of my abilities, or rather, how far I am willing to explore them. It is letting go of long-held beliefs about myself, a long-coming acceptance of what my evolution. Call it coming into your own, being comfortable in your skin. I feel that I have arrived here and with it there is tiredness that I no longer wish to bring attention to myself.

I have done the two years I had promised myself while figuring out what exactly it is I wanted to achieve. It is not that I do not find it rewarding or that I have written writing out of myself. I just feel that I no longer want to explain myself. I am all right with being misunderstood, with not being understood, with not “being gotten.” Who said I had to? Who told me I have the right for other people to see things from your point of view?

I am doing a re-calibration of my rewards, and this is no longer one of the things that bring me fulfilment. It has been self-indulgent, and I do not think it has done much to anyone outside myself. And what is the point of doing something only for yourself? I still enjoy writing and getting lost in words and leaving my footprints on blank pages as I traverse my minds and my hearts and the ghostly (and ghastly) paths of other writers. I do not feel like I have anything left to say.

I have exhausted my need for spewing words. I will not entirely stop, no one ever stops. I will just not be doing it with as much frequency. They, the ubiquitous they, often say, that writing is the work of tortured souls. No longer am I tortured. For the first time in a long time, I am happy. I no longer need the catharsis, the opening of whatever rotting wound was ailing me. Now I can write just to write.

There are many things to read, and while I figure out whether I want to come back into the light, I will drown myself in the words of others, into the different forms of prose that somehow bring one closer to oneself while also pushing you further away from what you think you should be. And maybe this is all it is – letting go of the ideas that I am supposed to be one thing, there is a distinct set-in-stone way I should be.

I am fluid and in the flow, I have streamed away and out of some personal concepts. I do not have to be a writer. I do not have to be a skirt-chaser. I do not have to agree with reading recommendations. I do not have to be anything. I am free. I found my medium and it is nothingness. It is the ability not to be and for that to be enough. The dragon lays still, the demons exorcised. I am free, released into the ether, unchained from myself yet bound tighter to everything around me and everything within myself.

I may return to the public, or what public is for an unknown like me (making noises on and offline) when I feel that I can write at that level, you know that level? The one where I will no longer need to layer myself in irony, sarcasm, existential exhaustion, self-deprecation? That one, that special place where pain and practised bourgeois hip fatigue will not be the sources of my stories, when I can tell better stories, mine, and others, even the others that I conjure up in my mind (this is called fiction).

Or, who knows, I may end up like Papa: done with writing and trying to prove anything, content with a beer and an easy book and with just being himself. Or like Mum, reading a newspaper for a whole afternoon, sleeping with her glasses on and having four o’clock tea and endlessly complaining about her students. Whatever my equivalent of lackadaisical or kvetching will be, this was fun.


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