Try Again

I have been homesick for Prim. Though writing is the only thing in this world that pardons me from the ordinary and grants me certain joy, I will abandon my writing practice like a sad newspaper left ignored on the driveway, condemned to perish to pulp. This time around, I squandered my true love for a trip to the beach, for an over the river, and through the wood turkey dinner, and for the spectacle that is the modern holiday season.

I had existed as the miserable perfectionist, refusing to start projects not stamped “Fail Proof! Guaranteed to Succeed!” and scrapping any project or plan that did not advance with Big Ben constancy. Now, bowing in gratitude, I have been led to the point at which misery no longer craves company for she is irrevocably bored with herself; her only hope for happiness is transformation. The miracle in surviving to this point is that Help abides here, always assuming the particular form that the seeker can understand. Help, in the form of writers, artists, and practice, has shown me that waves and storms are endemic not only to the creative process, but to the entire ocean of life. I cannot choreograph circumstance, but I can choose who I will be.

I choose to be someone who writes. I choose to be free from the vise of a non-existent perfection. Though I have been absent from Prim for seventeen days, I choose be resilient, to return home and to try again.

Photography:
moloko:familiar feeling” by Lali Masriera is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
Image modified by Prim.