I’m barely keeping my head above water. I’ve worked diligently and trusted my intuition. The stars are visible, but beyond my reach. I’m wading in a river, and I’ve grown weary of floating along. I feel as if an anchor is tied to my feet and the bottom feeders patiently await my rotting corpse. What am I wading for? I ask myself this question as I keep on writing. The words keep flowing, although the readers are few. I’m staying afloat only by my own words, which seem bottomless in depth, yet I need a stairway out of this fucken river. Or maybe I’ve set my sights too high…
There is a dock taunting me, always. It’s that blasted career of mine that’s kept me just above water. But this dock has been the crutch holding me close to the shoreline, when I’m longing for the ocean; the abundance. Such a mediocre life. I’ve always desired something more fulfilling; something that brings ultimate deliverance from the monetary drudging. But I continue writing because it is a natural high when the words pour out of me. It’s all I’ve got, yet it’s difficult to reach the heights of my dreams. I don’t know why I thought it would be so easy. Instead of wading here, or going against the current, I’ll swim downstream with the river without resistance to the discouragement I’m experiencing today.
As I ponder and analyze, swimming circles around myself, mentally aspiring to outsmart the system, I’m lifted to a new place. Perhaps it’s merely driftwood I grab a hold of during this moment of weariness as I’m trying to stay consciously afloat, but it comes at the exact right time, and I must laugh at myself for not noticing it before. It’s been beside me the whole time I’ve been drudging here, and what it represents is the safety of my recovery.
Look at ME! I’m going through all of this today, following last night’s realization that what I write is not by popular demand. Most people are interested in fiction or intellectual prose. I write notes to the soul; not by choice, but because no matter how much I try, the keyboard and pen take over, and the voice of my intuition is much louder than my imagination. I don’t have much control on the words that organize themselves before me, and going against them only brings me inner conflict. Here I am climbing upon this beautiful piece of driftwood as it takes me downstream, and suddenly, there is no conflict of nature. I’m simply floating along without struggle now, as I’m reminded that during this time of discouragement, I am still 100% intact. I am SOBER! There is no desire here to drink, or even consideration to alter my mind or my experience.
It’s clear to me, after the years without a drink, that I don’t ever need one. I’m perfectly capable of being discouraged without a need to self-destruct. If anything, I should recall the stormy days and nights along this river when it was freezing and there was no dock to support me. I should remember when I was sucked into the whirlpools and slammed against the rocks without mercy, due to my own self-sabotaging ways. Wow, what a lovely reprieve from my discouragement. How could I be so blind?
Hmmm… I guess I should spend some time taking it easy with this lifesaving notion that regardless of my monetary discouragement, I’m making my way in this world without a bottle to carry me through. I’m literally above water now, and why the hell have I been so hard on myself? Let’s keep things in perspective from here on out… shall we?