I had grown tired of the "who" in "who I was".
The quiet moments, once filled with the creative swirls of what was possible had receded into the obscured background, the static filing my vision like a psychic blizzard; howling, unforgiving, and brutal. I found myself contemplating ending it all, often with the pleasant demeanor of one deciding where to go for lunch. Other times, the inner critic in me recorded voice notes to myself, explaining why my presence here was no longer a benefit to others.
But mostly, it wasn't about any great sorrow, regret, or depression. I was just tired. I was tired of the pursuit, of the battling my own inner monsters, of the never ending struggle to create things that mattered in a world so seemingly ferocious and apathetic to the point of hostility. I was tired of love, tired of heartbreak, tired of feeling numb and tired of not being numb enough.
The podcast had become a chore. It felt like (and still feels like) everyone now had their own podcast and that the party was getting a little too "popular". The rebel in me wanted to throw on my motorcycle jacket, grab a bottle of Jack Daniels and split through the window in the bathroom.
It felt like we were all expected to build a brand, to unceasingly create "content" and to "produce, damn it!" The chorus of voices unceasingly telling us to be the ultra productive "creators" in the assembly line of the internet, social media, etc.
And, of course, in the midst of this came COVID-19 and the global shut down. I would love to say that I used the time well, writing books, songs, and inventing a new cure for the thing that most needed curing. But I can't say that. I learned. I doubled down on education, taking courses, reading books, and being coached. I learned some things that mattered. However, if I'm honest, I was desperately looking for a reason to keep going.
I needed something more.
In the midst of a forest in August, I sat with my notebook on my lap, trudging my way through trying to write poetry for an already announced poetry book about the brutality of nature (when will I ever learn to stop announcing things before they're done?). I watched several violet-green swallows as they captured moths with ominous efficiency and realized that I needed therapy.
Fast forward through a stressful election season, coup attempt, and a masked in-person school year, I find myself in a different light. I'm still searching, but it's for inspiration that will, as the writers say, "get to 50,000 words".
My days at the moment are filled almost entirely with music and the business thereof with people that I truly enjoy and connect with. The blizzard has receded, due in a large part to a therapist who, like me, only believes in visiting the past when it can help move into the future with more strength and intentionality. He's taught me how to pull myself back from the edge of the self destructive precipice and to realign with my highest values.
Recently, I heard somebody talk about the process of creativity is to join "something" (a group, scene, etc) and then leave it, only to return and see it for the first time. Perhaps that's what I've been doing with podcasting and books, albeit unconsciously. I had to leave the medium to see what it is now. What does the world need now? Another talking head podcast? Another boring ass book? Another person ranting about whatever they want to rant about?
And, while I'm at it, does the world need another blog post like this?
I'm not convinced it does. At least if it's written by these hands.
Maybe at the moment, in a world of so much, silence is a wonderful thing to give back to it.
Maybe. I don't know.