Dwindling without Kindling

I’ve hit one of those moments that happens with me, from time to time. It’s an issue that’s entirely of my own making, I guess, and nothing that’s particularly unique to me or who I am. Anyone reading this has probably gone through the same, either now or at some point in their life. I’m not special – not in that sense, nor any other.

As per the pic, a particular part of me is burning. I can’t say that I’m wholly burned out because I’m still able to cobble together some facsimile of genuine pursuit of those things that matter to me, but it’s becoming a stumble more often than not, and the second-guessing is more like triple-guessing on even the good days.

Don’t ask what constitutes a good day.

Even my daily routine feels taken over, and acts that used to take minutes extend until they consume an hour – time I might’ve previously used for creativity. I know I’m not capitalising on all the time I could be, but by the time it arrives, if I have the physical means I may not have the emotional ones. A seat on a train has become a chance to breathe air, where once it would be for breathing life into characters or articles or some other written marvel.

There’s always something I want to work on – a chance at escaping the tasks that have been and seem like permanent fixtures. Everything is a die roll, but always from the sidelines because anything more whole-hearted would risk the well-being of those I’m responsible for. I need the fruits of my stolen minutes to do it all so that they needn’t be stolen anymore, and every trip around the sun makes the idea of a payoff from any of this all the more remote.

That’s not what brought me to any of it, but this feeling of a stumble from the starting pistol’s thunder makes it seem like it never could be – that even a finish or completion is beyond reach.

I see you nodding. I wish you didn’t get it.

This half-way distraction isn’t served by the myriad of masteries I choose to dabble in, but most of all I think this insistence of somehow getting it to all come together on my own is sabotaging more than any other trait. I don’t know if it comes from wanting to prove I can, needing to not sit idle (a long time killer), or fear nobody would choose to collaborate. Plus there’s pride, or lack, which leads to thinking if anything’s of quality, that will always be enough, but I know that’s not true.

This here was halfway decent once, even stuck with shiny for it, but it never lead anywhere. There’s a daily drizzle despite this place being nearly abandoned, but this is all it is. The last avenue was a dream, but I could never make it more by myself. The current tends to feel like scrawling in crayon while the real names are binding their print, but in a way I thought I wanted that. Truth is it hasn’t been that much less by way of pressure, especially when it’s still mostly pursued alone.

It wouldn’t be the first time self-loathing panic set my bridges aflame.

To do these and the book and the other bigger things in the corners of the day feels like suffocating. Give has always been needed yet with every cycle, it seems more likely it would be me that does. I need my air, I know, but sometimes the only way a day’s end is met, is the hope one flicker might eventually catch.

Until one does, the slate is everything.

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