Today I can’t help wondering, as I have so many times before, why do I feel so hollow after completing a project (in this case softie making)? Depression and loneliness sets in the moment I’m finished with my latest undertaking, as if my latest venture was mere distraction. But distraction from what? DID issues? Fear of death? Fear of my life having no significance? Fear of the other shoe dropping?

The act of writing is the only creative output I can think of which doesn’t leave me feeling this way. When I write creatively I am left with a sense of completeness, almost a sense of blessedness. Everything else seems like busy work designed to keep me from thinking about things (what things though?) best left alone.

This isn’t about how many softies didn’t sell. If I’d sold every last one of them, there would still be this soul emptiness. Oh sometimes I’m just so weary of it all. Unbidden comes the haunting suspicion that this is how I felt years ago when I sowed so many wild oats. One night stands left me feeling just like this: alone, depressed, angry and hollow. Distraction, then. I haven’t come so far, I’ve just stopped using other people as a means to not think about the unthinkable.




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(No feeling of contentment here.)

2 thoughts on “Aftermath

  1. Your writing leaves you with that feeling because you reveal your soul. And nothing is more blessed than that. I love your writing, it speaks to me and is more real and relational than softies. But the softies are awesome too. I sew myself, and the only joy it has ever really left me with was when I do it someone else. But I know what you mean. Some things just don’t last.

  2. Everything is never enough and nothing is too much.

    I mean to tell you that abuse can leave us feeling conflicted by success as well as build upon our belief that we were born to fail.

    Sometimes I think my artwork is just a distraction from the facts, from the fact that this is all vanity. I don’t mean vanity in the I’m so good way but vanity in pointless, fruitless ventures that never feed me or even begin to touch or quench my inner thirst.


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