The Eternal Struggle of the Budding Creative.

Arrival.

These past couple of years I have struggled with blogging.  Some of this is due to a feeling of general malaise regarding the Covid 19 situation, the lockdowns and travel restrictions that have resulted from this, but some of this eternal struggle is due to my my own personal circumstances.  Despite this I am still creating as I shed my skin.  I have been writing, somewhat sporadically and am at present, editing a book I have been working on, I am brainstorming ideas for the follow-up, I am writing poetry and I am still continuing to paint.  I also have been trying my hand at sculpture and thinking about my creative future whilst adhering to the mantra, one day at a time as I wait for circumstances to change and attempt to makes plans.  

I tend to have intense periods of creativity and fallow times where I occasionally wallow in thought, whilst reading as much French as I possibly can, wool-gathering as I go.  I let myself drift and let the ideas increment and grow into something that I can work with as I meditate and consider.  

Prayer - Oil on Canvas, Trac Davies.

Poetry is a form of creativity that I use when I am bubbling over with words and images and there is nowhere tangible for them to go.  I tend to deal with ethereal along with real emotions as I ramble along both well known and unfamiliar mental pathways.

The Witching Hour - Oil on Canvas. Trac Davies. 

 Arrival.

I am both strong and vulnerable,

For I have allowed my entire nervous system to be exposed.

Bare branches of sensitivity lit by cold moonlight

and warmed by sunlight,

As it insidiously crawls to the surface of my skin.

Branching out from the inner core to feel and experience.
Freezing as it hits the outside world

Brittle iciness opposing my tempestuous heat.
I gasp with awareness that plays on raw nociceptors,

Synapses twang in empathy with other people’s energy,
It’s an instrument that I am forever tuning,

My ultra-precise inner barometer.
Sensitive to all thought and nuance,

Measuring both content and context that were beforehand unknown.
Before events I was “too sensitive”,

But these days I don’t apologise any more
For not being enough

for being too needy, too compromising,
So weak, because; “she is altogether too much.”

Conflicting emotions that raged an inner war that I did not be recognize.

I chitter-chatted in automatic response, because I never wished to put my baggage onto broader shoulders.

This verbosity, like wisteria shielded my emotional nudity from the harsher springtime elements,
Forming intense hues, flowering clouds that spiral ever outwards.

Yet at times, I feel like a Goddess with a sword strapped across my back
Viewing a particularly difficult mountain-range that I have to climb.

It’s curious that I feel both these things simultaneously.
Often the Mountains are my own behaviour

My own demons that I have to learn to love and forgive but also my progression
The goals I wish to achieve.

I climb them everyday, attaining a new  plateau of understanding

But I have to be careful that I don’t pull myself apart anew
Into the pit of my own shame where I made terrible mistakes

Out of anger, grief or fear,
Or simply not knowing how to approach things.

A chasm between heart and mouth
Which many of us struggle with,

Because our brain is not engaged.
Such is the heart-breaking toll to pay when we wear our nervous system inside-out.

But still climbing, still swimming, still flying,
I know that I will arrive

Only to have to climb another mountain-range,
Swim another sea,

Or fly another slipstream

But I understand

It

       Will

               All

                       Be

                               Worthwhile.

                                                    Eventually.

Detail of a WIP - Oil on Canvas, Trac Davies.

Detail of a WIP - Oil on Canvas, Trac Davies.

Please be patient, I'm rebranding everything and am attempting to build a website. Thank you. 

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Trac Davies - Artist ©