Writing in the thick-fog times

Nothing really special here folks, just one person having their say. You know how it goes, sometimes you just have to say it out loud.

Depression in The Western World…It’s a risk these days; like crossing roads in the dark, though not as dramatic, I mean it’s not like an episode is going to make in to a social media peek, gasp and gain a quick guilty thrill site.

I’ve a theory it has its origins a social aftermath of the two massive wars in short succession, which has left an impact handed down through the generations. A blighted memory of pain, suffering, terror and loss all imprinted and nuanced into an inherited emphasis on the frailty and conditionality of Life. Well that’s a summary anyhows.

The rolling in of the feeling of despair should have been easy to predict and given me time set up the emotional lamps and move into one of the safe, warm rooms; stay close there until the thick, cloying blinding fog had been breezed away. But you know how it goes, you’re working or drifting through your day fixed on the present and not calculating up accumulation of triggers which will cause The Event; tears, anger, outburst of opinion, morose mood, silly giggles, wild impractical plan, and hopefully will evaporate into forgettable or amused memory. Not so the fog, pity about that. Comes in at the end of the day, that potentially difficult time; Reflection- treat with caution.

Good thing about being used to it is at least you know when it’s there; there’s no mystery, no outrage. Important to try to keep it contained, it’s your fog, hold back as many tendrils as you can, for it’s a contagious beast, or if you don’t cut down your paradoxical emotional speed in this miasma you can knock someone down.

And the last thing I want to do is flip open a Word doc, and start writing. What have I got to say? At the end of the day there are others more eloquent in explaining this. As for fiction, the evidence is there of hundreds more talented and entertaining people with their gift for words. So much easier to just sit there and tinker away in an aimless wander through internet sites, like the browsing in shops never meaning to buy. But apparently, or so the bemused part of me says…..it doesn’t work like that.

Now where did that smile come from? Where’s the humour in being stuck in a thick emotional blind? Oh yes, of course the whimsicality of Human Nature. I mean it comes in as one of the hopeful small breezes. You’re down, but your stubborn urge to Life hasn’t been so subsumed. How so then? I’m confusing me. Good, means you’re thinking again. (Would you mind not referring to me in the second person… Ah, get used to it; Internal Conversation, it’s a writing device).

Doing something constructive, is always good. Writing then. Fingers moving across the keys, hand gripped firmly to the pen or pencil. Navigating a way out of this place, not just waiting for the fogs to clear from the mind or spirit, for you never know, they might settle.

Perspectives shifting. Did the fog come to me, or did I wander into its domain? It’s a topic worth considering. Another time and another place though. Concentrate on the navigation. Is this a land or a sea? Navigating and firm grips on pens suggesting comparisons with ships. Does it matter? I understand that light can be a wave or a particle Never mind about the mixing of metaphors or the instability of the imagery; getting out and above is the objective, is a plan.

That book of yours (mine..yeh..whatever…). Just write and write. You can go back and smooth it over afterwards, it’s what you’re supposed to do. Do you think Sculptures ever worried about the nose when they started on the task? (Well, I ever never sculptured- yes we know that, just embrace the metaphor- I heard that!) (Stupid Internalising)

Writing is the key in my case, something to confirm I am, I have a voice and I will not give up.

OK, I’m done.


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