What do you see out your window? Be as specific as you can. Are there evergreen trees with snow weighing them down with snow, or palm trees swaying in the breeze? What aspects of the view do you most enjoy? Is there another view you would rather be seeing out your window? Is it somewhere you’ve bee, or somewhere you dream of going? Do yo have particular seasons in your perfect view, or perhaps is your day tropical?
It’s cloudy outside again, The world outside is not vibrating with the sunshine. But then again what do you expect with a brick building with green doors in the not so great part of town, where this section is known for its illicit activities. Shootings, mostly… but those are usually about a half a mile away from here, not exactly where I’m living right now. It’s an interesting life I’ve been leading for the past 2 years, and I have a feeling that it won’t let up soon, not that I would want it to. I relish in the weird that’s happening, even regarding my own world and my own identity therein. It’s fcking scary, but at the same I can’t predict what’s going to happen. There’s no probability factor that I can calculate on where to go next… or what’s going to happen. The outside reflects that right now. The weather says it will become sunny again, but for right now, I am not sure if that’s the case or whether it will rain before the sun plays among us again.
What aspects do I enjoy the most about the view I have? Nothing really. It’s a reflection of the cold that the world is wrapped in right now. The industrial feeling of all this and the overtone of survival instinct floods among everyone living here. We are surviving. Most of us can pay our rent and on time, but there is always that underlying fear that fuels our distrust that we won’t be able to do it this month… or the month after. I have a decent job, but my own anxiety keeps me on an edge reminding me that I could fall off at any moment. Remember the unpredictability of your situation. Don’t forget it. Don’t get too comfortable because you never know when things might go awry.
My therapist has been trying to help me quell my own anxiety, but I’m not sure she’s as useful as she was in the beginning. I keep hearing things that I could look up for myself and practice on my own. She was okay in the beginning, but now I don’t see the utility. Almost like that random traffic cone outside. It sits underneath the stairs outside to the other dwellings, but I know not its purpose. The dirt smudges the once bright orange it once was, and the reflecting tape that hugs it now appears worn, tired… shredded even. Makes you wonder what it’s gone through if the life under the stairs has been that hard on it. But then there’s always a part to the story one can never know because inanimate objects can’t talk despite their best efforts.
There’s always another view I’d rather see than the cold industrial brick and steel bars that surround me. I dream of working in Hawaii, Costa Rica, Nambia, Thailand, anywhere but this cold lifeless view that provides me little inspiration and even less will to live. But where to start? How to begin? I keep trying to write to inspire myself to go after what it is that I truly want, but where to go? I have enlisted in the classes, have the emails sent to me with big promises to get my own career going… at a price. Always there’s a price. It makes sense. We all have to live and nothing in life is free. And I have already asked a lot, but this fear still sits within me and keeps me back. It’s like a blackened clot that keeps my blood from flowing freely and letting me take to my own wings. I know I am the only one holding myself back due to my own unwrought and thoughtless self-imposed limitations, but no matter what incantations I say, no matter what craft I make, this blockage will not leave me. I keep it as a testament to something, but what that something is I do not know. It’s a memory, my own beholden saint to my fear, my memory. But nothing shows. Everything hides… like the sun on this bleak morning.
Take me from here to a place where I believe in myself and that I am not chained down by false notions. I care not where it is: as long as it’s not here, without inspiration, without vigor, without a single piece of hope to shine on the rough textured buildings that serve as my prison.