I don’t like it here now. Environment dictates our behaviour and I have created a space I don’t want to be in. This was why I’d paid for someone else to handle the environment. But then I became dissatisfied with fine and wanted better. And then I remembered how much effort better was. How many frustrations; how many iterations better takes. Then, instead of ploughing onwards, I stopped, for way too long, and sank into the mud. And now everything is muddy, and I don’t like it.
Perhaps I should have in fact paid more for someone else to handle the environment. Perhaps that would have been the wise investment. But this is a silly little hobby of mine, and I am not a woman of substantial means.
So, instead of fine, I now have worse. A worse of my own creation. And is it really worth trying to make it better anymore? A voice in my head repeatedly questions. Everything dies, why not this, now?
I don’t know. But it would be a sad death – not tragic, but pathetic. A limping whimper into the black. It wouldn’t be a choice, it would be a resignation, and I need something different.
It’s true that this place is not especially aligned with whatever the fuck is growing in my head as a concept for my future. It’s true that it may not make sense to continue this endeavour in the way it has been up to this point. It may be right to decouple it from my identity, to fade it to some new realm, to transform it beyond recognition. What to do with it is not at all clear to me right now. But what I can’t do – what I mustn’t let myself do – is to simply relinquish it to decay. Not because it means anything, objectively. But because it means a lot of things, subjectively, personally, to me alone.
I don’t know if I can clean up the mud, but maybe, for now, I just keep trudging through it. Maybe something will happen while I’m doing that.