Maybe not creating, not being smack in the middle of an all-encompassing project, not juggling far too much isn't really that I'm ok with it.
Maybe I'm scared.
Maybe, after FLOW, after putting myself more out there than I ever have, of hitting heights I'd never dreamed of, of being profoundly proud, thrilled, anxious, disappointed, hurt, overwhelmed, even lost at times, I'm afraid of jumping back in.
Or even getting my feet wet at this point.
Maybe I'm afraid I can't do it again.
Maybe I'm feeling that no one will say yes this time.
I had a remarkable run. But nothing I did caught on fire. Even when I believed deep in my heart they would. It would. FLOW would.
In the end, it's heartbreaking, when I let myself think about it. What a conversation I got to start. What a message I put into the world. What important, relevant topics I had people talking about.
But not enough. And I got to the point where I couldn't swim upstream anymore.
It was so fucking hard for so long.
I'm trying to be ok with where I am. But deep inside, hidden so far down at this point I can pretend it's not there, I'm missing it. I miss meetings, phone calls, due dates. Learning, researching, exploring. Searching for art. Making sense of the mess it all starts out as. The anticipation. Excitement.
The crafting of something from a vague idea into a tangible reality.
Having an end result. A book on my shelf.
Something to talk about.
But missing it isn't enough to make me start again.
I've never been in this place before—complacent. Ambivalent. Unable to get myself going.
It's usually been the opposite. I couldn't stop.
Now I can't start.