A World of My Own

The chaos and every day hustle and bustle of life swarms through my head at all hours. Cosmic stresses that society has conditioned us to believe create a “well lived” life drive up my blood pressure and circle my head like annoying birds begging to be fed. I get up, go to work and slave away; a pawn in a flawed system. The cycle repeats, over and over and over until my mind threatens to burst from the mundane ecosystem posing a hostile takeover if I cannot escape. My saving grace, my solitude and creativity that threatens to burst forth like a geyser from a hot spring pushes its way to the surface and now, in the quiet hours in the comforts of my home, I am alive.

Sitting in the lotus position in the quieted, blackened living room of my home, I meditate. I envision the world I am to create, the endless possibilities my mind holds form like galaxies behind my eyes, technicolor images and scenes play out in rampant urgency, flashing from one scene to the next in speeds only my mind can comprehend. I listen to the sound of my own breathing and look to my future. I see the novel in my hands, feel its soft cover and thickness, smell the beautiful earthy sweetness from a freshly printed book, glance at the name crossing the bottom of the cover. The letters dance back at me, a form of wanting I didn’t know I had. My own name shines back at me in iridescent lettering.

The timer chirps attentively, calling me back to reality. But though I am here I am far away in the lands that I have created. I ruminate on my vision and the peaceful clarity that I have manifested brings me joy as I walk from the living room to the kitchen and pour a large helping of burgundy sweetness into my wine glass. Taking a large drag of the Cabernet Sauvignon, the warmth flows through me and I quickly grab the laptop sitting on my desk. I retreat to my writing corner, a corner with a plush leather bound chair and ottoman that create the perfect sitting position for me to let my fingers fly across the keys.

And here I begin. The life of a writer is torturous on a day to day basis. Living a life filled with societal expectations, the expectations of others force you to push down your gift until the hours you’re alone and can let it all out. It is pain, hurt, healing, love and beauty all piled and wrapped around a single soul. Your experiences change you. Your observations inspire you. Your imagination emboldens you. And yet when I sit and stare at the blank page in front of me I balk. The images my mind created are threatened by my own lack of confidence in myself. Am I good enough? Will people want to read my works? Will I live up to the greats I have spent my whole life reading, obsessing over their every word until I know them better than I know my own skin? The doubt circles and I drink my wine. The page stays blank. Again, the wine.

As I begin to relax again, the luscious liquid warming me, my doubts fall from my mind like water down the drain. The confidence I had moments ago returns to me. My mind wanders back into my meditation and slowly the pictures start to from inside my mind’s eye. I steady my hands above the keys and wait on baited breath. And then, it begins. The pictures move and my hands fly, documenting every small detail of the world I am creating. I become the obsequious writer, the word smith, the master of my own creations. The stresses of the world don’t matter here. In my world I am at peace, I am tranquil, I am living the lives of the characters I create; the characters born from different aspects of my personality, my life, my identity. Parts of myself I have hidden from others manifest themselves into personality flaws and obstacles for my creations to overcome. Still my fingers fly.

Hours pass yet in my mind I have lived merely seconds. I obliterate the world around me and live among the fairytales and tragedies only I can imagine. Emotions cycle, lives end, others begin. Here I am tranquil, here is where I belong. I long to live in the world where I can spend my days enthralled by nothing but writing and producing the novel or novels I know will come one day. The life of a writer is chaotic but it is a chaos I thrive in, that calms my soul and brings the everyday stresses to heal, pulling on the reins of ineptitude in my everyday life and putting me back together. But in the early hours of the morning as sleep threatens my eyes I acknowledge that I have not reached that blissfulness yet. I resign myself to everyday life again and wander wearily toward my bed where slumber awaits me like a lover in an empty bed. I drift to sleep and live inside my dreams, another beautiful distraction where anything is possible, where I am tranquil. Where I am me.