I’m not even sure what to call my absence. A break? A sabbatical. Reprieve perhaps. I feel like most people who leave a project do it to relieve some abutrary pressure to create, to interact, so they can get back to the core of their passion. They leave to find the love of craft and come back more emboldened and learned.
I left and did my best to pretend that this all didn’t exist. I watched movies and discovered new music. I caught up with people I haven’t spoken to in years. I celebrated surviving 2020. Every time my desire to write began to bloom like a spring flower through snow, I distracted myself with whatever fixation had my attention at the time. It felt good. It felt good to just be. It felt good not to worry about my creativity while trying to survive mentally, physically and spirtually. Only recently did i realize that I didn’t stress about it because it never left me. And during the worst years of my life, it was a much needed reminder.
Dreams. They’re one of the most patient things in the world. And a good lesson in trust. No, faith. I saw stories in everything, in plot points and choruses. Memories from long lost friends. Late night silences with only myself for company. It waited and knew I’d find my way back the same way I knew it’d be there when I’d return. I am meant to tell stories, through they way I write, the way I love, the way I live. No amount of self-doubt will change that. I couldn’t run away from this even if I wanted to.
Mini vibe check: I’m glad you’re around to read this, if you want to share something, I’d really like to give that back, just leave a link and I’ll check it out.
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