Creative Writing,  Journal

Rainy day psychobabble

I don’t feel like myself.

Who is “myself” anyway?

I feel as though I haven’t gotten over parts of my life, of myself.
I can’t…
I’m about to turn 25 and yet here I am, sad, lost, earning, searching, trying to grasp at moments of clarity that last fractions of a second.
People my age are getting married and making descendants.
I feel stuck at 17, back in the days that I refused to live, the time I wasted away; a choice I have come to regret.

What have I been doing with my life and where am I heading?

Nothing makes sense, especially this gentle tugging at my heart. It’s so feeble I barely notice it happen sometimes.
But it’s there and it’s tugging.

There’s a part of me that I’m afraid to investigate further.
It sits deep in a thick lush forest, surrounded by pine trees and hundred-year-old spider webs, it’s faint, it’s quaint… And it reaches far and wide. It might not even be a part of me, but something beyond my human comprehension, reaching inwards from a god-shaped hole, stretching itself towards me.

I’m afraid to approach it, afraid to acknowledge its existence.
Fear and rationale stand guard making sure that I do not dare touch it, whatever it is.

Whatever it is, it’s not safe.
My fear is telling me.

It’s nothing but my mind experiencing signs of insanity.
My rationale is telling me.

It’s the feeling of wonder, of possibility, of hope and inspiration.
It’s warm, inviting, soft, slithering through the fingers like it’s liquid yet light as gas.
It’s the synchronicity in the day-to-day.
It’s the 8th color, it’s octarine.

Whenever I catch a glimpse of … whatever this is, I fan it away.
It’s the unknown, it’s fear, it’s solitude. It’s so personal that no words could ever describe it well enough for others to fully understand.
It feels as though I’m losing my mind, unable to see the supposedly clear and distinct line between reality and imagination.
It’s irrational, therefore it’s against common sense.

What even is reality?
Who decided on what’s considered common sense?

I’m not supposed to ask these questions, I’m not supposed to get close to it, I’m not allowed to engage the unknown.

The thought of even attempting to describe the feeling in everyday examples feels insulting.
My fear and my rationale are growing irate.
I keep picturing the embodiment of rational thought in the shape of my father, how he’d react to me attempting an explanation for the feelings that engulf me when I think about the possibility of magic. Or when I look at a photograph or a piece of art that sends sparks dancing inside of me.

My rationale is pleased with the fleeting of the wondrous feeling.

But I know that it will come back, it always does.
It finds me through the gaps that neither my fear nor my rationale can keep an eye on at all times.
A millisecond is enough to make me question my sanity and the material reality.

Am I simply going insane? Is that what this is?
Or am I experiencing something bigger than my human brain can wrap its nerves around?

Why do I want to cry?
Why am I crying?

School, work, society, the human condition.
Never-ending grind and books on productivity.
Who am I to take a stand,
Who am I to …
Sometimes I wish I could just go insane, creating an excuse to act the way I always wished I would.

But there’s a different kind of fear inside of me.
It’s not the fear of the irrational, but rather of the rational.
I fear that life is going to stay this way forever.
That even if I open up to this growing wonder inside of me, it will dry up in mere days or even minutes, leaving me cold and hopeless, sentenced to an eternity of the mundane.
I’m afraid to clear away the branches, to clean the spiderwebs away. I’m terrified of crafting a path towards the god-shaped hole so demeaning the wonder, finding out the answer to the color and touching the feeling of hope.

I’m insulting it, aren’t I?

Claiming that merely opening up will provide me with the answers, that my human ego so much as possesses the capacity to comprehend the existence of “it.”
Is this what all of the books have described as a muse, inspiration, the higher creator, the universe, god or goddess, creativity, angels and higher power? Each one of us understands it so differently that there is no common word in the human language to explain what it is.
But it’s there.
It’s here.
The image of a thick forest and spider webs glistening in the faint unexplainable light came to me out of nowhere. It took no effort, it was there, expressing itself in a way that my mind could comprehend. It’s there and the thought of it makes me want to cry.
It’s not inside of me, though.
It’s the hole, the allegorical umbilical cord connecting each and every one of us to the universe, the Akashic records and the higher plane of existence.

Here comes my rationale again, scoffing at these mushy feelings and my hope for something more out of our existence. How New-Age of you, it says. How utterly weak and cowardly of you to search for something magical instead of facing the reality like a proper adult, it whispers relentlessly.
My rationale and fear are cracking.
They’re growing desperate, resorting to depression to lock me up in inaction.

I do agree with one point made in “War of Art.”
The ego is our human existence, our conscious mind, our past, our present, and our future. Its trauma and wounds do not directly influence the true self.
My ego is frozen in fear of failure, but the kindness of the forest light has stayed untouched, quietly awaiting the right time to stretch its rays.

Does every single artist, every single soul that has come before, is and will be, feels their own version of the octarine yet all of them know that they shouldn’t speak of it out loud?

I’m feeling limited by my human condition.
I try to rationalize this whole thing as a figment of my imagination thought up out of mere desperation, yet this only raises a question of how capable a human brain actually is?
Once again returning to challenge the involvement of a higher something with our everyday lives, our experiences and our existence.

In the end, no one knows why we’re here or how we’re here.
The history of evolution is but an amazing gathering of random occurrences and happy accidents.

How hard is it to believe that there is something more to this?
Just how there are simpler organisms not capable of conscious thought, so humans might not be at the top either. Who is to say that there is nothing bigger out there if our brains are simply not powerful enough to recognize its existence.

The more rational side of me and of every living human being is trying to reduce such thoughts to nothing more than psychobabble, be it out of fear or … what else it there?
We’re all living in fear of the unknown, we’re all born with a god-shaped hole connecting us to the web of the universe.

And those of us who aren’t frozen in unease, are creatives.

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