I am alone. I am sitting in the same chair that I’ve been using for over fifteen years. I search my feelings and the memories flood in. Usually they are filled with some form of resentment.
I read in a book that ‘manic-depression may trigger the desire to communicate, make perceptions more vivid, and loosen associations in a way that makes written creativity more likely.’
Do we seek this place so that creativity could flourish or does the stress of creative work simply drives us over the edge? Is the creative life only pleasing because the way we are… prevents us from holding stable jobs?
I’m thinking of people… people I once recalled as friends.
They are nothing but memories for a story I have yet to write or finish writing. My sister told me that every face you have seen in a dream are based on the faces you have seen in life. Even the ones you only saw for a split second. The strangers you see in the store. The coffee shop. On the bus. Every possibility of human connection that you pass by on your way through the day.
On average, you only participate with the same seven people on a daily or weekly basis. When someone else comes in — be it a new friend or a prospective lover — they will replace someone from the original members. We move in and out of circles just like that. Everything is in constant flux.