The day had spun on its axis just as most days had done in life. It was going by just as it was planned. I had slayed the day in accordance with the methods of concerned responsibility. I had read a couple of chapters within the most recent book that had garnered my attention. I paid my respects to the corporate behemoths by paying them for services rendered. I had fixed myself a healthy breakfast and exercised upon my breathing routine. Breathing, as I have mentioned before is critical to living. When one is proactive in the deepness of breathing, one becomes more in tune with the life that lives inside them. I had gone for my hour’s run and the loveliness of a spring morning rinsed my soul clean of the pessimism that had been creeping upon last night’s routine.
It has taken me forty years to finally understand the importance of healthy living. I am more than inclined to mention that the reasons I have become more aware of my health as of late is simple. First and foremost, it is because of my son. I have to—not only—be the lead of an example for him, but I must also not allow him the ability to beat me in a paternalistic tussle down the road of our lives. He will not be able to strike injury upon me without suffering from a bit of my toughened love. Above both of these examples, I must have a fitting bill of health so that I am able to provide not only for him but also allow my presence the opportunity to be around for the milestones that await his courtesy.
All in all the day had been delightful—everything about it—from the morning sun to the sanctified sweating away of my worries. Yet something was still missing. These days are all the same, with their moderate pleasantries, wholly bearable and borderline tolerable. The glasses of these days were filled to the brim with lukewarm water and while the glass was still full—something was being overlooked.
These days without despair, when I seem to wonder with a calming demeanor, objective and fearless, where has the pain gone? What about pleasure? And then it comes back, tenfold, that wild longing for the strength of emotion, and the sensation to learn something that I do not know, seethes within me. The storm within me starts to brew again—it brews with rage against this toneless, flat, and sterile life. It was time to write again.
The thing about this normalcy of life is that it leaves little to the wayside of creativity. When the motion of life becomes repetitive, life doesn’t breathe a creative breath. It breathes stagnant. The prosperous brood of mediocrity doesn’t necessarily bode well with where I am at nowadays in this authentic life of mine.
For forty years I have been wandering through the wilderness of me. I have been touched and torched by love. I have made mistakes for which I have paid dearly. I have made strides towards the direction meant for me, only to be thrown completely off course, chasing a scent of surprise, staring through a wolf’s eyes. It seems as though that I live a bit on both sides, on the edge of things. But though I am me, I am a son to a mother, a husband to my wife, and a father to my son, so I must every once in awhile sit upon the peaceful garden I have grown, and in its quaintness, it is orderly and it is neat, and I must rejoice that things still are just as they are meant to be.
But you must see that I planted a tree about 17 months ago upon this garden, and it is growing rapidly, and I must tend to this tree of me. For I am still the same old me, but I have a grown a branch—maybe even three—and the desire to change my ordinary, everyday consciousness does not seize all like it has me, but it is a persistent theme upon this tree. After all isn’t it a tree that brought us to see what we were never supposed to be. Instead of eating the forbidden fruit from this tree, I am going to consume the tree in its entirety and watch as elation crests into all that is divine by the drift of a dream.
And that is how one goes about beating another bout of writers block. Thanks for reading.