Over the last two years, art has become key in alleviating my frustration whenever my body fails to conform to those (often too-high) standards I set for myself. Within its sanctuary, I can move fast or slow, taking as few or as many rests as I want (or need) in between. I can work on simple ideas or take on more complex projects that require considerable concentration.
I cannot, however, sheer stubborn myself past sleep deprivation … no matter how much I grit my teeth.
Insomnia hits me where it hurts most. It robs me of the ability to concentrate, leaves me feeling isolated, lonely, and unable to be my own best friend (esp. in the absence of my dearest friend, who truly understands). It eats away at my mobility, turns me into a cry-baby, and often leaves me floundering for order, like a mama hen desperate to round up her scattered chicks.
To combat this anarchy, I set aside the more complex, ambitious projects with the silent assurance to myself that “this too, shall pass” and that I will be able to return (soon) to complete what I started (and hopefully, I won’t have completely forgotten what I set out to achieve). I go back to the simple things. Things meant to be creative and fun, but don’t require the same level of professionalism to complete. Mostly, they are things I meant to do for myself in the first place, but insist on putting off in favor of far more interesting, adventurous tasks.
I’ve learned it’s these things, though, that keep me grounded and sane in the absence of contact with a broader world out beyond the door.
It was time to start a new notebook, so I took the opportunity to embellish my own:
Words create stories. Don’t forget to tell the world stories of your own.