“writing about a writer's block is better than not writing at all” 
― Charles Bukowski

It has been a month since I've sat down to write. Three days over a month to be exact. It's not that my life has been lacking in content to write about, but rather I have been so swallowed up by the summer sun that I haven't sat down to throw words on a page. Discipline. The word that I seem to skirt around with excuses like "I'm not a real writer," or "I don't have anything worth publishing." Though, I sit here now, shaking my head at myself lovingly. I cannot fool myself, though I try and try I do. 

You see, I stumble through the dilemma of too much choice. The kind of choice that becomes stifling... like which of three dinner parties should I attend, or which outdoor activity would I like to do, or how much time should I dedicate to my art or music.... and with these choices I am often overcome by a feeling of overwhelm and then I end up doing nothing. Sometimes solitude is the simplest and most comfortable answer. However, my solitude has given me a yearning for people. For the strength it takes to choose people and their happiness and interests over my own, and to learn compromise. 

And I know I shouldn't complain about choice, because hell I know I am lucky to have such an abundance of choice, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have less. I often ponder whether or not the choices we face in cities are detrimental to our mental health. I have experienced the joy of living in small communities where it is a necessity to learn how to cohabilitate with people from a variety of different backgrounds. The petty concerns are cast aside, and I have learned that my love extends beyond my preconceived notion of love.

Love has been learned for me a countless number of times. It is something that I find in constant flux and potency. It extends outward in every direction, overcoming negative emotion and flowing consistently through the salty sea and ocean breeze that infiltrates my world. The world that keeps me wrapped in its fingers with a grip just tight enough not to drop me, but just loose enough to let me be the self that I am. A constant re-definition of a woman learning her way through the world. 

As an artist, a wordsmith, a poet, a writer, a musician, a human woman who feels the tug of the world as a deep call that cannot be ignored, I find myself overcome by my curiosities. Discipline falls to the wayside, and I jump with a short-sighted gusto into whatever catches my fancy. Yet, I am coming to a place where I have started to crave order and consistency. At least some. And so today I sat down to write about not-writing and found myself being drawn back into love.

I can love myself for my inconsistencies. The scatteredness of my writing. The mirror reflection of my inner workings that crave solitude and company simultaneously, while the inner critic pleads me a discipline. While suddenly my stomach grabs my attention and begs for food that I know too well will require an hour of my attention. The artist in me never sleeps. I jump from curiosities with equal zest and attention, becoming a trade of all, master of none. And as I say this, the stomach grumbles and I must turn away from words to pursue my body. 

Discipline begins today. The words will return tomorrow.