Just write until there are no more words. Let it flow. Let the demands of the outside world fall away. It is a solitary this occupation of writing and yet you need to do it. Though the outside world calls you always with its demands and its voices whisper on and on endlessly in your right ear. It is with the left ear that you hear your own voice, even though it comes from deep within the entrails of you that part of you that gets so upset by outside disturbance, especially when you make the mistake of letting that outer voice over ride your own…trust your own self, trust your own gut, writer for here it is that you are home.
Yesterday, remember when you were not sure where to turn, I said to you just make the decision to go outside, back to the old world of yesterday and see how it ends up. Then you got slammed after you were censored again. You tried to walk it out and host of tears fell like rain and you felt like shit and then you were pulled this way and that with the torment of what you had to figure out from all the pain they carried deep within and could not own, only project. It felt so alien there. But is it your pain too, the pain you all shared. You have the feeling – this is not where I belong … these people hate chaos, they are always trying to tidy it up and they hate the bringer of chaos into their life which is their shadow, the dark they want to shut the door on that has such light that they will only find through a descent into themselves which they don’t really want allow with all their philosophy, formulas, routines that kill it off, barricading them from the deep fertile creative place so teeming with life, rich, messy, vibrant, raw and real. But that is not where they live, that is not want they want and you cannot want what they tell you you must want, must be. To you that is death and you have fought so hard to live and to express. You cannot be put to death and the way they treat you makes you feel suicidal, Iif only for a time, until you can gain back your own ground from this seaswept place of despair.
The dream showed you. A pile of cow meat mince from which worms grew and then turned into mini calves or horses. Head of the horse, Pegasus emerging from severed Medusa’s head : the longing, the anger, the rage In horror you looked with the thought ‘I can’t eat that’ and yet on reflection you didn’t mince words but for them they were not in palatable form and so perhaps you have to keep these words silent around them, they are too raw, too real, too hurtful too. They remind them too much of all the pain and anger they don’t want to face. Perhaps they need to ‘put it behind them’ but can you? For you the way out is through and your soul and process has shown there is no putting behind for in the anger, raw and real are the signs of vibrant life energy, spirit, self, soul wrestling to be free.
But to stay angry, will it help you to realise how much sadness they carry and perhaps are you the one that needs to self temper, to show compassion when they cannot, least of all for the angry one? Where does this end up? Anger forces people away, only tears bring them close but to be separate, to be apart is necessary, to grow, to live, to breathe, to be true. Which to choose?
Writer you do not know and you question and in questioning too much you forget that really you do know, but the knowing is painful. Or perhaps there is no right answer only a series of different perspectives which change according to the place you view the entire thing from. And perhaps for you writing is the circumnavigating art that allows you to spiral it around this crystal ball of knowing that spews forth a rainbow of different colours. You twist it, you turn it, you view it from all angles and delight in the colours..
So keep writing writer until there are no words and your process is spent, even if it ends up in no answers follow Rilke’s idea and learn to love the questions more. Trust in time that knowing and answers will come and with them even more questions.