I think it is time.
This homely niche of the web that I have declared my roost, my territory, by imbibing my literary scent among the plush verdure and foliage of the internet is in due time for a refurbishing. A renovation. A revitalization.
As a creature of egregious procrastination (the astronomical difference in dates between posts being the case in point), I have imposed an overbearing tragedy of the commons upon myself as I expend midnight oil upon midnight oil, fraught with the need to write prose to “perfection”, while I deplete the world’s fuel reserves. Time was gaining purchase in my pursuit for it because if my sloth was night, I had become nocturnally enslaved. The world around me was a cranked up merry go round while my circadian rhythm ran on molasses.
Then, my mind slipped upon a revelation that was the catalyst for this realization.
I was predisposed to become a mule to highly shelved expectations.
I was hampered by the onerous burden, the weighted gaze, the cumbersome load of anticipation from every cardinal direction in existence. And the mule obeys. Even when it’s vertebral fluids are seeping with anguish, clamoring for catharsis. This aggravated and ironically rewarded my procrastination for I upheld such dogged determination that everything I wrote was “not good enough”.
The conception of this blog was also not of my own ingenuity, rather, it was birthed from the unsolicited advice of a well wisher. To prevaricate disappointment and dissention, I pursued this premise of blogging. And it wasn’t wholly out of my own volition. The steering wheel was thrust upon me but the direction was unbeknowst. I was lost. My compass was skewed. It was superfluos to resume without light at the end of the tunnel.
I was a fickle will of the wisp and haphazardly posted arbitrary articles that were deemed fit for this site. This space was soon to be a well curated paleantology museum, an archive of sepulchral corpses that were my posts. The words were lifeless, limp and coerced into labour. There was no defining purpose. I desired not simply a futile steering wheel. I craved the keys.
I am aware that this blog is far from the apothesis, the magnum opus of my writing. This period of consternation and contemplation has compelled me into chrysalis. My gluttonous caterpillar self, having been satiated by this creative stagnation has concurred into a sensory deprivation cocoon. An exhile and a honeymoon. Striving to irrevocably live the vagrant, ravishing and unbridled life of a butterfly, pollinating a plehora of insightful content implored me.
And that is what my mushed up caterpillar/butterfly amalgamate form suspended in chrysalis aspire to be one day. To be truly severed from the merciless shackles of expectations and to abolish the exectution of creativity at the guillotine of “perfection”. To exhumate the grave of something so foreign; the expired notion of a purposeful drive in my writing.
To become a butterfly. Carefree and unabashed.