Through the Prism

After passing through the prism, each refraction contains some pure essence of the light, but only an incomplete part. We will always experience some aspect of reality, of the Truth, but only from our perspectives as they are colored by who and where we are. Others will know a different color and none will see the whole, complete light. These are my musings from my particular refraction.


Feeling Museless

Well, more accurately and honestly, muse resistant.

Can't seem to get myself started. On anything.

This is an attempt.

The photos in previous posts are attempts.

Too many things to get done at work that require actual thought, that can't be faked if I want to do them well. Too worn out from illness--my own and my family's--with no time to properly recover. Too introverted with no time to recharge energy. Too much self-medication to compensate; trying to stop.

My mom also had two boys aged 19 months apart, gained weight during those first few years due to no time for self-care. I've always told myself I would be different. Perhaps not.

Others offer advice, little else to help.

Images, words provide flashes of delight, but don't congeal into fully-formed, sustained thoughts.

The "poem" I wrote for Fleeting a month ago:
It's strange, really.

I have vague memories
Of, once upon a time,
Having had
Intelligent thoughts.

I'm not quite sure
What they were
Or where they went,

But I have this
Niggling sensation
That they existed.
And the ironic thing is that I love the life I have right now. It's everything I could want and I've never been happier. There just seems to be a bit too much of it for me to contain.

I've always had aspirations of being selfless, but it seems my nature requires too great a need for solitude.

Hmm. I seem to have lost my way from my attempt to find a muse, have veered into a proper naval gazing, self-pitying whine.

I'll have to add some appropriate pictures from one of the books staring at me that I should be turning into storytime plans for the fall, the delightful Mother Bruce by Ryan T. Higgins.

The ironic thing is that one of my favorite ways to recharge my energy is to become fully immersed in a good book, yet more often than not lately I can't even seem to muster the energy to focus on doing that.

So, anyway, I guess this hasn't helped and it's time to move on. I'll keep it here to record the attempt. And keep digging into myself for that muse.

Hmm. I might have just made an unexpected connection between Mother Bruce and one of the other books on the cart that could lead to a nice little theme. There's a hint of excitement about that, some enthusiasm to pursue the task.

Is that even a word, museless?


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