Today I went to see St Joan (Bernard Shaw’s play) which quickened me a bit. Which was good, because I felt grey inside, as if mist had taken up residence in my heart – or swirled dangerously close.
I felt cut off from something vital, perhaps from supportive social circles for some of my higher goals of life, such as this blog and other things.
Perhaps from joy of creativity, which I seemed to have forgotten to do much about, or at any rate which seems very hard for me to find a place for some days, when routine just washes over everything.
Perhaps I just missed sex, which is not that easy when you have a partner who is, understandably, not feeling very sexy about her pregnant body.
All of these things, in one combination of fragments or other, might be true – wholly or partially. But another truth is that I cannot allow them to be true. I have to fight them – these feelings of joylessness, of restlessness, of feeling lost and isolated.
So the first thing I chose to do after getting home, and admittedly doing lots of chores, was to sit back down and write. I know now I need to do a story. I need to tell a story, in words and pictures, in some combo. I can’t just not tell a story, of any significance, and expect to feel as alive as if I don’t.
I have to tell stories to feel alive, it is that simple, and I know it and I am deeply regretful about the periods when I have forgotten it, for all sorts of ‘good reasons’. Or when I have doubted my ability to do it, to ever bring my storytelling out into the world in any meaningful form and therefore have stalled.
I have to keep fighting that and so the only way that makes sense is to do it one fight at a time, a few hundred words here and there – but regularly. Luckily I was able to tonight. Again.
And I feel better for it already. Please let me not forget.