Theme: WRITE THE WRONG
10.03.2021
My writing has gone tits up.
Stuck.
I used to always wake up early in the morning.
Thoughts would closely swirl in my head.
My mind lose.
Still tired and not quite ready to come alive.
And suddenly a word would appear.
And the first sentence emerge.
And the impulse to reach out for my phone to start typing would be so compelling.
Tiredness gone.
Then another sentence …
A question.
And the text would flow.
For about an hour or so.
Very little editing.
If I stopped in between and then carried on it would still be there.
Sometimes I would re-read what I’d written and squeeze_add a sentence and get carried away in that thought flow, having realisations about what I’d just written.
Making the rest of the text not irrelevant but somewhat disjointed because of two flows happening simultaneously.
Word plays and combinations would just appear.
Making me laugh with surprise.
Finally, the closing-the-loop sentence.
The moment when there was nothing more to add.
But it would complete the theme (which had to be two words)!and trigger the search for the matching image.
I would go on Pinterest and the 2nd or 3rd image I see would be it.
Bingo.
Everything wrapped up nicely.
Poignantly.
A word parcel is born.
This is how I‘ve been effortlessly writing the last ten months.
But something has changed.
My head is different.
Things don’t flow.
There is no vibrancy.
Writing almost, but not quite, feels like a chore.
My thoughts feel drenched.
Heavy.
Wet.
Dragged in from the pouring rain.
Still distinguishable.
I can pick them out individually.
And blowdry them.
And they are there.
However, slightly out of shape.
It works but …
Cotton instead of silk.
I wonder if this will be it?
My brilliant career as an inspired writer switched off.
Because of a breakup?
That would suck.
Is my writing directly connected to Jones?
It started when we started dating.
I know that artists create the most beautiful art when in turmoil.
So there is hope.
The last ten months I have been in turmoil no shit.
But what about now?
I feel more in turmoil than ever.
Or maybe just numbly disillusioned.
Turned inside out.
Do I need to turmoil more?
I hope a change of scenery will make the flow happen.
I hope.
What if not?
I saw it as my destiny.
For once in my life I saw clearly what I wanted to do.
To write.
Have insights.
And share.
Freya von Bulow.
He writer.
A female Ernest Hemingway.
But Maika is creeping in.
My alter ego.
I am not called Freya anymore since Jones and I broke up.
Where is she?
Everyone I hang out with knows me as Maika.
I wanted to let go of her but now she is back.
I wanted to let her fade away unnoticed.
But with all this official stuff I have been sorting out, she is back in full swing.
The UK back to haunt me.
Wtf
Shady’s back.
And I’m not pleased.
I adore Freya.
I wanted to leave Maika behind when I moved to Amsterdam.
And I almost succeeded.
With Jones.
But now it feels I am back at the beginning.
I love re-inventing myself.
It’s fun and I can explore different character which ultimately are me.
But it seems that’s all I’m doing.
Am I?
Do I ever examine the whole and reap the benefits?
Do my different personas ever work together as a team?
And would I be aware if they did?
Sometimes I feel like one of those people who renovate houses while living in them but the minute it’s finished, they just sell it and start renovating the next.
It’s a way of living.
A project.
The mission is never to live in a perfect house.
It’s about the journey and the challenge.
Seeing potential and making it visible for others.
I guess my being me is my house.
And I’m constantly making changes.
To the same house?
The key to renovating houses is to eventually sell them as a profit.
Creating value for themselves and others.
Am I selling my house?
Am I generating value?
Or am I simply changing the same house around over and over, making excuses not to sell?
Maybe.
Is it not time to sell?
At the right price?
No more excuses?
There is the money thing again.
And I’m sick with worry.
I have to take my tenant to court who has been defaulting on rent most of last year.
It might’ve been a shit move to serve him notice to move out by 1st April or else because I have no money to pay for a lawyer and if for some reason he wins I’m fucked.
What if I made a mistake in the process?
What if I have not been strict enough as a landlord?
I know I shouldn’t have rented out the flat to him in the first place.
But I did because I believed there was a reason.
The reason should not be to have the worst landlord experience.
What if I loose?
What if they change the eviction procedures again?
What if …
It’s too exhausting thinking about it.
Once I take it out of my head, write it down and assess, it won’t look so bad.
I know it works.
What seems like a big ole knotted bunch of wool will dissolve nicely.
But trust is needed.
And worry is the opposite of trust.
That’s the challenge.
And if my mission is not to live in the perfect house, why am I complaining? Worrying?
In that case all is on track.
In Ernest.
I need to just chill and roll with it.
And just keep on writing.
