My soul is dusty.
In the chaos, the exhaustion, the holding all things together—I either fell apart myself, or was placed on a shelf until further notice. Not out of spite or neglect; by necessity. There isn’t time, there isn’t space, there isn’t energy to be a person, anymore. We only do and survive. Today, yesterday, tomorrow.
I wrote a mantra on my mirror a couple months ago. It’s there as a declaration as well as a reminder to myself. “When I show up, I make meaningful art.” Some days I don’t know what I’m making or why, but I keep trying to show up just the same.
Maybe someday I’ll look back and see art. Maybe someday I’ll see the meaning in all this madness. Maybe someday life will be normal, again. Keep. showing. up.
