Shrouded Crossroad

My mind feels dormant. It’s a strange feeling as I’ve gotten very accustomed to the constant buzz inside my head that only varies in volume, but never goes entirely quiet. Except now it has. Not in a stressful calm-before-the-storm kind of way, instead it’s almost as if it’s taking a well deserved rest while I figure out my next move. You see, I seem to have come to this calm standstill in front of a crossroad and it feels like I need to (when the time comes) choose which way to go, except the roads are shrouded and I can’t make out what they represent yet. It’s not a stressful endeavour, on the contrary it’s very peaceful and I know I don’t need to force a decision, it will come to me when the time is right; sort of when the golden snitch reveals ‘I open at the close’ except nothing in me is dying, but I feel the roads will become clearer  as this chapter comes to a close and the next prepares to begin. 

My creativity is running high these days. I’ve spent the weekend away from the world, unable to be reached through social media in order to not distract myself as I usually do when my mind needs attention. My creativity has always loved misery and as Wednesday night cast me into sadness my creativity has been in an intoxicated gleeful state ever since Thursday morning. It’s sort of a double win: I have been able to make sense of my mind and emotions, been able to step onto solid soil feeling grounded after only a short week, all the while also creating the words I live for and love so deeply. I am creating in a very theraputic way, and what is born from that state is very raw and real — which is my favourite kind. My previous post was a poem that came fresh from my fingertips, tears still soaking my face and the final verse represents it and me all too well and I’m very proud of it, it’s almost like a phoenix emerging from its ashes, no? That’s how it feels with words I create from personal grief/misery/sadness (or however you like to categorize the various stages of sadness) as something has come to an end, a figurative death, and something vibrant and meaningful is born from the ashes. I plan on printing that last verse onto a small canvas, and creating something around, to hang on my wall as it represents so much in my life as opposed to just the recent event that actually birthed it. 

‘You lay with a poet and made your way into her bloodstream

And now your essence in her veins must become ink on paper

As she bleeds her precious words

In an attempt to extract you from within

While her soul sighs with practiced longing

For the vibrant muse that rescued the drowning poet’

I’m very interested to see where this crossroad leads when the roads become clear and it’s time for me to choose — until then I’ll focus on the creativity that is currently reveling in last week’s sadness. It has harboured every piece of it and is currently playing like a formerly confined horse finally let out into the fields to run rampant, taking off in every unplanned direction with excited leaps, my only task being to capture everything that comes pouring out as it transfer ashes into words at the tips of my fingers. 

With love,

– Martie xx

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