Now I’m old enough to know which parts of this process to guard. I can sense the delicate boundaries of my own attention when I’m trying to find the heart of an idea and bring it to life. There is a constant presence off to the side, waving and calling, “Hey! These songs you’re writing will be heard by us, an amorphous ocean of other people. What will we think? Consider us!” I notice when my thinking drifts that way and more quickly shut it down, return inward. I feel the integrity in not considering other people’s reactions to what I’m doing. This counter-intuitive push-away feels wrong in so much of life. In the enclosed mind the unformed becomes clear, while outwardly I give off weird vibes. In this tender nest where creation begins, denying the community is an essential act. When it’s writing time, the wheels turn and ideas ooze, the work takes place in the wet mud of the mind. Only the body is at the grocery store not saying hi.
(via https://pwelverumandsun.substack.com/p/night-palace-by-mount-eerie)
