Back to the Drawing Board

This life of mine isn't always orgies and whip cream. It's as it has always been, a stream of quiet nights interrupted by occasional crazy sexual experiences. Things can quickly change from being cuddled up to a naked body under satin sheets to sleepless nights sitting in front of a buzzing computer screen. Home-cooked lunches change to grab-and-go fast food five days a week. Thankfully, vodka is still vodka though.

I live my life like the ebb and flow of the ocean, just waiting for the tide to come back in. Waiting for the burst of energy that you can only get when you connect with another person and get to know them for the first time. Waiting to be intoxicated again with all the possibilities of what may be. I'm here, looking out to the ocean at night. Just staring into the dark, listening for clues of the next icy wave crashing upon the rocky shore. Waiting for my next chance to live. But there is no wind, there's no breeze and the water is silent for the time being.

It's an odd occasion and I find that there is a feeling that overtakes me that simply cannot be put into words. It's not a plateau, not a valley, a little like a dense gray fog on a cloudy night, but not quite. The only real way to describe it is to explain how it affects me.

My creativity, for example has always been fueled by my mood and I try to use whatever medium I can to best express myself. I feel like these methods are constantly evolving, but sometimes something grabs me so hard that I'm reverted back to my previous forms of creation. Back before Photoshop or spray paint stencils, even before I bought my guitar. Hell, I'm not even any good at guitar, but it does help me relax and that is one thing that I have a serious problem with. But before I had blisters on my fingers and hand cramps I was putting ink on paper. I would find myself hunched over my desk with dark stains on my fingertips intently focused on my work. No room for thought or distractions. And that is my meditation.

I rarely go back to a piece of work once I put the pen down so I would have to stay up until it was finished. Long after everyone else had gone to bed I would be there sketching away line after line until I was done. My eyes would go blurry and my brain would shut off, but with a little caffeine and a quiet radio station I would have something that I could be proud of in the end and that was all that mattered. After that I would sleep more soundly than ever before and wake up feeling refreshed the next day.

And because of this, the solitude is comforting in a sad way. It's the calm before the storm, the night just before the dawn. Hopefully, that means the breeze will soon blow the waves in again and release me from where I stand along the shore, waiting.