many ideas are always looming over me with equal intensity, enthusiasm, persistence and passion to be created and tangibly born and held in my hands.
i start working on them but it always and unfailingly takes me ages to complete or just add the final touches to a project. it’s so frustrating. i’m very consistently interrupted by my own new ideas for new projects — which, in retrospect, is a blessing, actually. not complaining. i work on a handful of things at the same time and it takes tiny steps and more time to bring a project to full fruition due to my being distracted by the other projects that i’m working on.
you see, i’m good at starting things, filled with excitement and buzzing with inspiration, but at some point along the way, i lose my flare and the project just dies until its necessity to manifest suddenly takes over my mind probably months or years later.
i write for many different books — each its own concept and personality. yet none of those books is actually coming to life. it all remains in my head or frantically jotted down on a piece of paper that ends up lost between a pile of unread books or hidden in old notebooks.
yet, in reality, i do actually wake up at sunrise (or sometimes not even sleep at all) to work on these ideas. i write and i collect the pieces for this project into one place and the pieces for that project into that place. i organize and edit and keep all my files updated.
i create books knowing that there are people that would actually want to read them — perhaps some would even cherish them so much as to request a copy for themselves — but i also make these books for no one but my self; no one’s eyes, no one’s thoughts, no one’s heart but my own..
it’s selfish. it’s incomprehensible. but these words composed into poems and then put into books are my creations, my babies. i can’t risk their misunderstanding.
and it’s confusing. distressing even. because i do want my work to be read and loved and related to — even critiqued or taken out of context — but i also want it to stay as it is: unread and untouched by another but my own secretive self.
i fear it fleeting out of my head, out of my world, my bones, and not belonging to me anymore. that’s what’s stopping me . .