examen xvii

i don't know what it is that makes me silent and feeling like i have scour my brain for words to lay down here.

my mind isn't idle. my heart doesn't feel cold. why has it become such a challenge to talk about myself, think about myself?

one of the reasons i stopped writing years ago was because i began to perceive it as a kind of luxury for the outside world - taking up time. for the inside world... perhaps because it was beginning to feel like a black hole that i was digging myself deeper and deeper into. always entertaining the same thoughts, always speculating, always asking questions that are unlikely to be answered.

for a season this was good; it was good and healthy to attempt to be in the real world. but seasons end. and yin and yang, high tide and low tide, peace and unrest, cosmos and chaos... they all coexist in one body, one circumstance. it should coexist in me.

the peaceful moments of my arts education were in co-creation. the conversations with God that happened during and through an activity uninfluenced by what surrounded me. i hid in the throwing room, producing cup after cup and when there was frustration their walls would also be tired.

the paradox of design and my growing dissatisfaction in creative expression in my soul the last three years i can see is a mirror of my pursuit in writing.

expression was fruitless if it didn't drive me forward, if it didn't serve a greater purpose.

was faith so internalised that it was fruitless expression?