Right, let me see if I can dig into this a little... so, it's true that I can get bored fairly easily, and often come up with new ideas to keep myself entertained. And I do like to push my limits as a writer, trying my damnedest to grapple with ideas and writing techniques few or none have grappled with before. Yet, I am beginning to realize there are serious anxieties underlying this urge that harm me more than they help me.

I used to enjoy repeating myself, at least when I felt very strongly I'd conceived something worth repeating. I hammered on favorite concepts over and over, I sprinkled certain turns of phrase throughout my work both as clues to connective threads, and simply because I enjoyed echoing them. But within the past few years, I've developed this clawing conviction that once I depict a concept, oh, that's it, it's done, there's no further interest to be had.

Use an idea in flash fiction or a short story? Well, that's dead now, it no longer exists for Ashy. Iterate on things? Create a web of common themes? Flesh out those ideas in greater detail in longer stories at some point in the future? Nope! Can't do any of that! Once others have seen it from me once, they never want to see it again!

And I've grown used to thinking of this as "just the way I do things," which is technically accurate, but... is it really how I want to? I'm surrounded by beings that genuinely enjoy seeing the same ideas over and over, often from the same creators, and not infrequently with minimal changes. Satisfying things remain satisfying, even when repeated. In some cases they even grow more satisfying. Yet whenever I write, I wrestle with this strange conviction that this doesn't apply to me, that I exist under a different standard to everyone else, that I am only worth paying attention to so long as I'm always doing something different.

This probably has its origins at the intersection of my abandonment issues and my creative anxieties, now that I think about it. I'm always afraid of being long-winded, of writing densely, even though that's my favorite thing to do. Even as I see writers, most especially Tolkien, with similar dense tangential styles continue to resonate with new readers right up to the present, I am driven before the constant instinct that I can't do that, that I won't get anywhere.

I'm... I'm genuinely not sure where to start untangling this one. Identifying the problem's one thing, and it's a start, but... I'm truly struggling to fathom how I can return to enjoying the simple repetition of favorite things. I've seen flash-fiction accounts that largely thrive on repeating the same scenario and the same beats, albeit with different wording, on the daily. In fact, they invariably achieve way more success than I do!

So, I'm clearly standing in my own way here, and I want the things I love to retain their charm even after I've done them a thousand times, a million, an infinity of times, but... I'm not even able to comprehend what that would feel like. At the cognitive level, I am genuinely unable to imagine how doing this feels for the creators that do it.

Well... this one's going to take some sorting...

I played a little bit of the Cosmic Wheel Sisterhood demo for Next Fest and I was absolutely blown away. I'm not super surprised, given how much I loved Red Strings Club, but I don't think I was expecting the game to hit me on such a personal and immediate level.

Doing the first two cards, making and choosing their symbology, constructing and collaborating over its meaning and grasping at what I can to build something that's meaningful and powerful to me, it's gotten me reflecting on my journey of transitioning as well as my journey to improve my mental health and continue on the forever ongoing journey of healing from my trauma. It's made me reflect on how much of that relied on concentrated and sustained work on my part, tugging and tearing at the fabric of the world to shape a little piece of it in a way that was pleasing to me and reflective of who I am.

I've always been intrigued by magic, but I've never delved into any kind of actual practice. I don't know if that's going to change or not, but this game has me really excited about continuing on my path of shaping and building my identity into something that is reflective of me, in ways that only I can do, and I am very excited to see what else this game has in store.

I minimize myself for those I love.

I take my criticisms and annoyances and conflicting arguments and I fold them into neat little squares and then I dispose of them.

Toss them into the fire, lose them to the wind, let them fall into placid waters. Whatever it takes.

What use do I have for them?

I love them. How can I fault them for their faults? We all have faults, myself especially. So how can I judge them?

What right do I have to be annoyed or upset when I also make these mistakes? I don't have that right.

I try not to be a hypocrite.

So I step back, I watch the mood.

I slide myself into whichever state is best suited to balance any given room. I can be cool, I can be funny, I can be compassionate, I can be diligent, I can be protective.

I water myself down if my irritation leaks out, soften every blow by keeping them firmly within my own skin. I let the rage beat itself bloody at the base of my skull, face blank, eyes burning.

But even that is too much.

They can never know, you see.

Once the anger has tired itself out and lays in the tenderness of my pummeled nerves, I too take this useless proof of flaw and fold it into a neat little square to be disposed of.

I parcel my care and soul out to those I love.

I constantly feel sorry that I gave away so many neatly folded parcels of myself so early to people who didn't deserve them.

I want willingly to do for them what I did for him. Send them on demand care packages of my love and devotion and self whenever they feel down, whenever something doesn't go their way.

But I mourn that I can only give them these neatly folded squares; whether given in gift or tossed away by sentimentality.

I share every happiness with them, every triumph and ounce of compassion I have belong to them.

I only keep the ugly pieces for myself. Those bitter, depressing, infuriating little squares.

Some of them I don't throw away.

The ones of people who have wronged me, I still fold them up small, but I tuck them away. I put them in a specific petty little corner and I only look through them when no one is around.

These mean thoughts, words, images and scenes of violence and cruelty both psychological and physical, are for no one but myself. They are the proof of my faults, my inability to just be kind and selfless and eternally patient and hardworking.

I only want these when I'm in the mood to hate myself or someone else. They often get knocked loose when another gust of anger or despair bruises it's way through me.

Beyond these desperately hidden sacred pieces, I put on a patient and welcoming facade and parcel out my smile for the general public.

I minimize the space I take up, the things I need, the times I speak, the volume of my voice when I do.

I have learned that being kind is its own reward for me, and I ensure that I remember this on days when it doesn't feel that way. I tell myself over and over again that I need to be what I want to see in the world, even if not all of my neatly fold squares match that.

But it's okay, the general public don't have to know that.

I speak more slowly and sweetly and at a higher pitch to distract from those disagreeable, mismatched folded squares.

I minimize myself for my own safety, physical and psychological. No one can hurt me if they can't see me. I always try not to give strangers and acquaintances things or ideas to hurt me with.

I try not to overstep, mistakes are the end of the road for my pride and fragile heart. At least for a few days.

So I try not to overstep. So I fold my curiosities and desire to help into little squares that I tuck away to later give to my loved ones.

I suppose that means all I really do is just fold myself into neat little squares.

For the most part, it works perfectly.

Only sometimes I feel like I've folded myself so small that I can't quite tell where I am.