AHigherExistence
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I'm crafting a new story, beginning the trash draft (what I call the first draft), and I'm consumed by a weight I want to believe all artists bear. I'm forgetting words, writing a sentence or a passage a day, skipping chapters, sweating trying to blend the world-building in the plot. Characters. Dialogue. All that shit. Then one time, I went through my finished books, doing the usual "Oh, how did I even make this?" and searched my memory for that particular strain. ]
I can't find it. I don't remember how I felt when I started the stories. There are bit and pieces scattered around my memory, maybe they are Experience. And I thought, why? Where did those irritations hide themselves? Those "Why did fuck did I choose this?" moments. And I KNOW I felt them. Cause I'm me, and cause it's hard.
And I am disgruntled. I remember the processes (I write everything down), but not the emotions that followed me through them. It's weird.
I feel like I've missed something. Maybe I was always looking at the end, waiting to drop the loads I carried, only to willingly chain more to me; an endless process of reaching for that horizon where the sun is mild and the breeze eases my aches and the flowers make me sleep peacefully forever. Maybe I feel I don't deserve the positive words I've gotten; yet the negative ones sting so. I'm not sure what I'm trying to say here. I just thought that this work was painful. It hurts, yet I think if I don't do it, I would die.
But I don't enjoy how the hard parts break apart and assimilate to bolster my mind. Because I can't look back at the processes and know it gets better if I can't remember their pain. So I'm stuck pulling my hair. Still, there's nothing I can do about that.
Yet. Yet. When I talk about it all, when I share all that I've done, I find myself smiling. Maybe they're not truly gone.