Tonight I sit in front of this wonderous piece of technology without knowing about what I’m about to write. I feel the need to write and communicate, but all of the “good” thoughts my mind created this morning flew the coop when I left for work. I believe my profession is killing my passion of writing. Since I began this employment six years ago, the amount of time devoted to writing becomes less and less. The quality of poems I create are mundane at best since the writing muscles aren’t flexed as much as they need to stay limber. “Use it or lose it” certainly applies to this state.
Don’t get me wrong, I do like my job. The people there are great even through their individual quirks (I’m not one to talk since I may be the oddest of the lot) and management is generally supportive. I feel as if I need to be in a different line of work; a job that allows me to partake in the world of coffee houses, poetry readings, galleries, and enjoy the night life that I very much like to put into words. I want to partake, not produce the entertainment. Maybe I never really knew my true passion until it unknowingly passed through my fingers. Now I hold a grain of what I once possessed. Questions flow all around me: What direction shall I head towards for a new career? Will I gain the confidence needed to perform in an open mic? What do I have to offer to better the community and society?
For as long as I can remember, music, art, and writing have played a big part in my life. Granted, I work with two out of the three every day, but it frustrates me to no end that I’m not creating the art. I’m not working directly with the music. Writing only comes in the form of corporate communications and emails to colleagues. My environment does not foster individual creations. It calls for creative solutions to technical problems, a different style of original thought that my brain quite often forgets. I am not a fully logical creature but am still capable of very abstract reasoning.
My conclusion is this: I need to change this life that I’ve created for myself. It scares me to all hell that nothing seems to fall into place as it has in the past. Luck graced me with her presence many times in the past, and I hope she will show her face again. I am the catalyst. Now all I do is wait and remember the language which waits like an acorn to fall.