Nothing cures an overactive mind quite like an empty page or a blank screen.
I’m sitting down in a Breather space. I open my notebook to engage in some free writing to get the juices flowing. Just free writing. Just for me.
Once again, my mind goes blank.
Nothing cures an overactive mind quite like an empty page or a blank screen.
They are a miracle cure for the voices in my head.
Throughout the day, I hear the voices in my head as they eloquently narrate my experiences. I hear it all: the poetic prose, the brilliant thoughts, the perfect phrasings. They haunt me as I walk around. I can’t seem to escape them.
And then the moment I sit down to write, even for myself, even in the safe and sacred space of a notebook that will never be shown to anyone, they vanish, like mice scurrying into the walls when the lights turn on. And I am left, alone, in a big empty room, haunted by the memory of their presence.
We repeat this dance often: my thoughts, my emotions, my observations, my words and me.
My brilliance is a shy toddler. She hides in the dark corner behind the couch, emerging with her talents only after all the guests have gone home and the last of the dishes from the party are being put away.
My words are impervious to the chase, like the beautiful woman at the party who knows what she’s got and sends a silent signal to all men who would dare approach her:
Don’t. Even. Try.
And yet, I can’t not try. They seduce me with their poetry and relevance and resonance. I want these words so badly, not for myself, but for others. I want to share them.
Like the high school freshman geek determined to date the senior prom queen in that 1980s movie, I dutifully show up. Daily.
I bring flowers and candy. I wait outside the door for her to emerge.
I notice. I journal. I write whatever will come. All the while, with my eye on that door, waiting for the queen to emerge. When she emerges, will she notice me there, attentively waiting for some sign of recognition?
Ocassionally, I knock on the door. But I am careful. I don’t want to beg. I don’t want to come across as too desperate.
Yet secretly, I wonder: will I ever get a chance?
At times, I get a fleeting glance. The words emerge with a tease.
A sentence here. A paragraph there. Some stream of consciousness that I manage to capture while I’m recording the details of an experience. Some of it is so good. Brilliant, in fact. And in the face of this gift I tend to trip over my own feet like the new girl at the dance, making a mess of what opportunity has been given to me.
So it continues.
I walk around, and the words follow me. They haunt me in my head. While I’m on the street, in the subway, in the shower, I hear the beautiful melodies of perfect paragraphs. They scream loudly for my attention, forcing me to stop and notice them.
They taunt me: Here we are. Capture us before we depart.
I fall for it.
Every. Time.
The moment I take out a pen or keyboard, they disappear.
Sometimes I hear their faint echos, but they are drowned out by a louder sound: a sound of criticism and judgment. This critic often doesn’t even say anything at all; yet it looms loud in its silence.
How is it possible that this voice can be louder in its silence than voice of brilliance, compassion, awareness and service? Who conferred this power to the silent critic?
The answer to that is a painful truth: I did.
Somewhere along the way, I gave the critic the power over the brilliance.
Somewhere along the way, I allowed the mind to control the heart.
Somewhere along the way, I let fear replace trust.
I can seek to blame whatever conditioning assisted in this, but the truth is that blame won’t change anything.
I am responsible for empowering the critic. I am responsible for suppressing the heart. I am responsible for allowing the fear.
Once unleashed, they are not easy to control. They are like gremlins, these brilliance-killers. They take on a life of their own. But it’s up to me to slay them.
So I show up to fight, daily. It’s all I can do.
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