Why would you believe
you could control how you're perceived
when at your best
you're intermediately versed
in your own feelings?
We lost most of our leaves in September when Hurricane Florence visited. The preparation for such a storm left us with extra bottles of water, clothes packed in the backseat of my car in the event I got stuck at work, and bare trees at the front of our property as if October was never to come. Nevermind the severity of the storm in places otherwise, I sat at my window and watched as the leaves were ripped off their branches in bunches and sent elsewhere, rendering my excitement for color changing yards in the Autumn utterly useless.
It was 42 degrees and rainy the second week in November. Although in this particular moment, I happened to be sweating and understood the consequence of sitting outside in such weather after raising my body temperature, I remained on the front porch taking shallow sips of lemon infused water as what was left of our foliage rustled in the cold wind. Only this time of year am I exponentially reflective and I can only assume it has something to do with the stripping of what I know for more months of the year than what I don't. For years I wrote short stories about love, existence, and the possibility of where you can let yourself go if you simply let go. They all seemed to happen at the same time and I'm left years following wondering where it all went to.
To have these instances become discouraging in that my fictitious brain no longer existed in order to make room for the brain that found a path in picking apart people and situations for its own exploitation was rather disheartening, but nothing I could do much about. I still examined peoples mannerisms in a fashion that was less imagination and far closer to reality, on an emotional level. Having always been the empathetic friend, I quickly realized there was not much for me to offer in a friendship other than emotional availability and that seemed to expand to those I didn't know on a personal level. Another personality trait I quickly found to be alarming, given the circumstances in which I lived and spent most of my time, like anyone: online.
I began to find it difficult to be genuine in the culture growing up with social media based solely on the fact that you are not supposed to be openly vulnerable in this medium, unless you've created a brand for yourself that sits atop such a practice. Even then, you've installed another requirement to be wired into how you think and, such as these things go, are expected to be honest, transparent, and emotional all the time; perhaps not allowed to cover these emotions with irony we were all raised on for fear of not "being true to yourself," whatever the hell that meant. My persistence never wavered in my confidence on whether or not I was supposed to build on this sort of brand, as my emotions were the source of truth I found most appealing to write. Often I felt I may be stepping into dangerous territory for this reason because while vulnerability was where my best conscience came from, giving anyone that sort of ammunition to find what makes you tick or shut down was more power than any stranger should ever have had.
On November 20th I found a TEDtalk by Elizabeth Gilbert (the author of Eat, Pray, Love.) in which she discussed what it is about artistry that walks its producers to their own potential demise. The talk was entitled "Your Elusive Creative Genius" and she spoke of her experiences in the wake of the success of Eat, Pray, Love collaborating with this pre-determined apprehension that she may never make something as best-seller worthy again. Similar to my creative production at the time, she became aware of the void any artist can fall into, continuing down that path of thinking, and how normal internalizing your emotions has become for those that don't otherwise thrive on something so powerful we've all been programmed with.
In her research on how to safely go about picking apart ones anxieties on the topic, Elizabeth was led to ancient Greece and ancient Rome. Within both of these beliefs, these creative breakthroughs were believed to not come solely from the human being producing them, but rather a supernatural being here to aide in doing the same work, under whatever given surname: the Daemon or the Genius, respectively. The breeding of this idea of a spec the universe designed to be a vessel for your being expanded far beyond creativity, believing each of these pieces of intangible existence are simply there to guide you in any and every form. Elizabeth points out that this could be good in that if you don't create to your full potential, it is not exclusively your fault. Your genius just slept through his alarm that day. She also goes on to describe the adverse effect: if you create something seemingly out of your realm or capability prior, everyone knows it was likely your genius shaping the outcome of your final product, not the intensity of your untapped skill level.
This began the spiraling of an internal conflict I hadn't realized was already waging inside of me. With no sort of large publication under my belt, the fear of the unknown (and my inability to control this situation)(control freaks, am I right?) began to creep in, reminding me that in the times I channel this part of my brain that is found nowhere else except on a piece of paper or on a screen with my fingers barely moving fast enough to keep up with the reeling film of text narrative flashing through my head, maybe it isn't me, because it sure doesn't feel like me, and if it doesn't feel like me how could it be, even with my name all over it. With my emotion all over it, and my revelations bleeding from it. Perhaps it is so I have no reason to take all the blame when my emotions don't provide me with what I need on paper like they did when they popped into my head like a cloud of fog, hazing any other semblance of intelligence I could have. It feels as though it is a sort of conceptualized freedom.
So poses the question as to if my emotions were what I wanted to provide to the world myself or if I bumped into this thick glasses, big forehead, mad scientist of a spiritual enigma and he said "YES! THIS IS THE ONE! WE SHALL PLAGUE HER WITH FRUSTRATION AND DISBELIEF IN THE FAITH OF HERSELF...... AND MAKE IT ART." Finding different voices in different ways the wind blows ignites wonders about this clock in and clock out system, if this mad scientist has a co-conspirator, or if he changes with the seasons like I do. The part of my being that understands the danger in being so openly vulnerable with the world for the sake of putting others at ease, although not getting it in return, is in opposition with the part of me that says "to hell with it, show 'em what you've got," but it all falls within the realm of reassurance that, social media or not, fictional writing or not, ability to fix people that shouldn't be fixed by a commoner or not, reciprocity or not, using this soulfully empathetic aura is what I'm supposed to be doing. Either way, it feels like a half empty sort of situation, and I'm willing to tell that to the world with a smile on my face.