This was written some FIVE years ago and I still find myself in London....and the sentiments have amplified in that time. More on that later....
For quite some time now, I have had a strongly negative reaction to returning "home" at rhe end of a day. I always jokeingly call it my prison but there is quite some truth to that. I am locked behind its bars from morning to late afternoon without anything to do, anything to live for. I feel helplessly trapped with no vision or drive. They call it "writers block"...well, I have been suffering from that for close to 19 months now. Ever since I finished my first book, I have been turned off writing like never before. The thing I keep coming back to is that I am completely and absolutely UNINSPIRED in my every day life so how can I hope to breath life to a new work? If one isn't happy and content with their surroundings, then how can art blossom?
That is the bottom line. I am not happy. I have dreams and goals for my life but don't seem any nearer to attaining them. Every year is but mere reminder of the fact that I am no closer in reaching them.
My heart aches for the unloved, the neglected, the unwanted yet here I sit in my comfortable Western "castle" wasting day after day. I need to go. I need to do something.
I used to resent this restlessness that came as a result of my upbringing but now I have come to love and cherish it. For it is the marker that tells me when I am not fulfilling the goals I should and it continues to awake me from the Western slumber that doesn't even suit me. It does not let me rest. It does not let me lie.
For quite some time now, I have had a strongly negative reaction to returning "home" at rhe end of a day. I always jokeingly call it my prison but there is quite some truth to that. I am locked behind its bars from morning to late afternoon without anything to do, anything to live for. I feel helplessly trapped with no vision or drive. They call it "writers block"...well, I have been suffering from that for close to 19 months now. Ever since I finished my first book, I have been turned off writing like never before. The thing I keep coming back to is that I am completely and absolutely UNINSPIRED in my every day life so how can I hope to breath life to a new work? If one isn't happy and content with their surroundings, then how can art blossom?
That is the bottom line. I am not happy. I have dreams and goals for my life but don't seem any nearer to attaining them. Every year is but mere reminder of the fact that I am no closer in reaching them.
My heart aches for the unloved, the neglected, the unwanted yet here I sit in my comfortable Western "castle" wasting day after day. I need to go. I need to do something.
I used to resent this restlessness that came as a result of my upbringing but now I have come to love and cherish it. For it is the marker that tells me when I am not fulfilling the goals I should and it continues to awake me from the Western slumber that doesn't even suit me. It does not let me rest. It does not let me lie.
