My soul path is to communicate. To be an oracle, to speak my truth, to illuminate and to share my wisdom. If that sounds like arrogance, please know that this is not where I’m coming from. I truly believe in my soul’s journey towards creative enlightenment. My soul is too alive, too creative, it’s not quite squashed for the drones at Council.
Lessons in life will be repeated until they are learned.
I dream of being paid for my creativity.
I’m a writer. I’m so much of a writer, it’s written on the walls of my soul. Ever since I was a small child, I’ve been a storyteller. My mother will certainly attest to my tall tales. But beyond that, I feel the world of stories and dreams more acutely than my waking life.
Recently, the fear and the nausea is rising. How long can I keep swallowing shit and tell people that it’s delicious? I’m absorbing so much negative energy that it’s making me sick and all I can do is keep plastering this smile on my face. It’s only a matter of time before I go full Michael Douglas or Jim Carrey and not in a funny way.
It’s not like I’m even any good at hiding my emotions, thoughts or feelings. They are literally written all over my face. I have three very different bosses tell me that I need to ‘watch my face’ or think about not ‘eye-rolling’ or ‘stop looking worried’. All these things? They’re just my face.
Chances are, if I think you’re an idiot, my face has already told you LONG before my words do.
So what’s keeping me from this long drawn out entitled diatribe about my employment?
Fear. A lack of confidence. Why? Well, like I said earlier, we’re all brainwashed from childhood with the 9-5-er, the 40-year-mortgage-road-to- perdition… That’s what we do right? I’m a white middle class average, run of the mill, north-of-thirty woman, it’s time to settle right? I’ve been trained in this admin world for eight years, this is where I smoosh my bum into a wheely chair and settle in for the next twenty odd years.
I remember being told as a teenager that writing, performing, drawing are nice hobbies but now it’s time to grow up. Pencils down, textas back in the box, playtime’s over. No more colouring, no more fantasy writing. It’s over… But what if those things are your destiny?
What if that’s who you are, your dream, your life path?
Well… what happens is that you shove every ounce of screaming flesh and you push and you push every part of that writer, of that artist, down, down, way down. And then what happens, I hear you ask? Well dear reader, you end up where I am.
In a nine to fiver, doomed to repeat the lessons in life. Doomed to be surrounded by dream-swallowers, and mortgage-chasers.
And then there are the Others. They are the “rest of us”= those people who just fell in to a job to pay for childcare or their next holiday or to keep the debt collectors at bay and got addicted to the slightly higher pay check. They were average at school, never really tried too hard at anything, but never really failed either. Chances are, that in any organisation, you’d expect a few of the Others. Dream Squashers. Passion killers. Monkeys, if you will. Apparently, with every job change, with every dashed hope, the monkeys are multiplying. I’m surrounded by them now.
I’m the ringmaster in this crazy circus life of mine. I’m on the carousel the never stops spinning. I’m wrestling lions, and tigers, and bears, oh my! And the animals do not want to let me sleep tonight.
Welcome to the jungle, my friends.
But the universe will not let me be. The wider world is calling and the universal energy is escalating. I feel it as strongly as my heart beat. The messages are constantly reminding me that I don’t have to choose this doomed-dream-swallower-life anymore.
That it’s time to take the bull-by-the-horns and swing on the trapeze and –