Tuesday, 16 April 2013

Nightmares, a living reality

I don’t want to go to sleep tonight.

This morning’s nightmares are clouding my mind. They loom over my bed already, waiting to pounce.

Waiting for that point in the night when I have become at ease in my sleep. Vulnerable and relaxed, that’s when they like to strike.

They won’t stop haunting me.

I continue to question why, what, how. But still they come.

This morning I woke up with a jolt, body soaked in sweat, not knowing where I was. An unfamiliar face threatened my place of safety. As my hand reached for the light switch, I slowly began to realise that the menacing face had appeared from somewhere deep in my imagination.

It’s no good telling me the nightmare isn’t real, that the face doesn’t exist. Because when my heart is spiralling into palpations and I can still feel the terror within me, I know it’s real.

I want to write something more tonight, to feel inspired and excited by a new scheme or idea. But it seems impossible. I feel neither inspired nor excited. My mind feels void of ideas. And I hate that. Writers block (or painter block), isn’t that what they call it? It’s like all my creative juices have been used up. Maybe because I put so much creative time and energy into the exhibition, I’ve dried up all my resources?

It does feel a little bit like that actually. Like I need some creative or intellectual nourishment to spur me into action. Probably not having my different courses on doesn’t really help matters. Although I don’t usually struggle to find inspiration on my own.

I’m worried that this is it. (And I don't mean in every area of my life, I'm talking about my creative aspirations here, as well as the hindrance my depression and anxiety can be.) I’ve sold a painting, I did the exhibition, I’ve written my blog for a while, and now I’ve got nothing else to offer.
Nothing else to offer except perhaps myself?
Am I too self-absorbed? Always writing about myself and painting about my own feelings? Shouldn’t I be thinking about someone else for a change? And why should anyone be interested in what I have to offer? It’s nothing different from what any other person says, or writes, or does, or paints, or creates.
Or is thinking about this even worse than my night terrors...To bed Susie. To bed.

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