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.