It’s been a minute since I’ve sat down to write a blog post. I can’t quite pinpoint the exact reason as to why I’ve been absent  — as there are many  — but know that I’m back, albeit briefly.

Without giving too much away, a lot has happened within the last few months: a change in mindset, personal growth, a little travelling and a whole lot of realising things, (s/o to Kylie Jenner).

A recurring thought that I can’t seem to shake, however, is the feeling of time wasted. We are just over a quarter of the way through 2018 and I’m already starting to panic at the mere prospect that I haven’t achieved what I set out to do.

Good things take time und so weiter but good things also require action on part of the person that wants it. In other words, I lost my drive and inspiration.

I’ve often prided myself (yikes) on having something to say. Be it trivial or heartfelt, if I believed in something strongly enough, something had to be done.  In some respects, 2017 was the year I did that.

I worked extensively on giving my voice to causes I deemed just, whether it be reading at Black Lives Matter Berlin, speaking on radio shows, co-curating panels with gal-dem, or even performing poetry. I did those things because I loved it and I wanted to.

Yet somehow the more I read, the more I felt I actually had very little to say. I quickly became aware of my own doubts and insecurities regarding my ability to write as well the unspoken and uncompensated labour of unpacking my pain. I grew tired of having to summon something out of me for the sake of producing content especially when there was no heart in it.

As a result, I stopped writing frequently and regurgitated old material. In effect, I lost my respect for the stage and my own voice. Whatever I did produce was a direct result of my internal frustration and not the burning desire to work on my craft or connect with fellow writers. In other words, your girl got lost in the sauce and it wasn’t cute.

I became enamoured with people, theories, concepts and aesthetics as a way of distracting myself. I allowed myself to be swayed by the habits of other people and become lost in their doubts and successes. It was escapist behaviour and life gave me a huge reality check.

As my own worst critic, self-doubt doesn’t sit with too well with me, and neither does idleness. (Admittedly, I’m not sure where I’m going with this post, but for the sake of offloading, I’ll let it be). I know that in recent weeks, I’ve been exposed to thoughtful, delicate and passionate voices that speak to the root of what I believe I encompass and I’m starting to make light of my ‘funk.’

I’ve reclaimed my time and energy from those who were simply on another path and worked to strengthen new bonds. I’ve giving more space to the page and re-visiting old skills I’ve left by the wayside. So often as writers (particularly poets) we see our work as having a final goal or resolute point. While that can be true for some, I don’t think it should always manifest itself this way.

In order to give myself necessary room to grow as a writer, friend, partner and poet, I’m taking the time to see things, not as the end, but instead as to be continued …

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