There are those ‘dark nights of the soul’, certainly there are. But more often than those (which are sometimes in their inverted way glorious and help put one right again), more often than those are the infinitely trickier sepia toned evenings staring up at the sun spent sky. These nights are illustrious in their ambiguity, irritating in their refusal to be anything but slightly uneven: am I lonely, frightened, wound up, procrastinating, hungry, still breathing? There is a frenetic pace of thought accompanied by a strong sense of purpose. This is a lethal combination that has driven many an artist (practicing or not) mad. How can I distill these thoughts into a well crafted... fill in the blank. How can I listen long enough to decipher the language the muses are speaking tonight? Those wily wenches with their many flavoured tongues....
Can we ever communicate fully? Understand and be understood? Is trying a selfish act of affirmation? How does one know one exists without communication with other? It is the truest test of one’s fundamental belief: can you be at peace alone? If you can be then that means you need no one but you, nothing but your breath to prove your existence. And wouldn’t that be nice.
And why is it that I am obsessed with this question right now? I have been at peace alone. I am not currently at peace alone. It has been a while since I have been at peace alone for any number of consecutive days. I am so unaccustomed to being at peace alone that I could not tell you at this moment whether I am hungry, tired, or almost, what city I am in.
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