Yesterday I went to the movies. First I went and had a massage and then took myself to see Edge of Love. I loved the film and came out of the cinema in that state I love – when you are still psychologically engrossed in the movie. I walked along the wet, cold street half believing I was in war torn London.
Films and books about creative people (especially writers) always catch my imagination. Anything deep and a bit dark appeals to me. Writers are often not ‘normal’ people – they live their lives on the edge and connect with meaning in a way others may not. I relate to this strongly.
The film is based on events in the life of the poet Dylan Thomas although he is not really the central character in the movie at all. Complex and passionate lives intertwined in events far from normal even in WWII. Stories like these feed something deep within me. I have never wanted an ordinary life – I always yearned for excitement, drama, intensity, passion. Instead I mostly found depression and anguish. Still there is something about pain that makes you feel alive.
Walking along those streets alone in the darkening evening I remembered all that intensity I always felt – that longing for a life that was different from those I saw around me. That longing for a deep, intense, passionate love affair with everything. And above all to create – to express myself through words. I also reconnected with the first career I wanted – to be an actor. I still think that would have been a good outlet for my psyche.
To create, to live and to love fully – must be the most important things in life. Sometimes I get lost in a smothering blanket of mediocrity and that is why I have spent so many years depressed. Life has never lived up to my expectations of what it could be. And I take full responsibility for that – nobody and nothing else is to blame. I have settled for mediocrity in my life through fear and ignorance.
The urge I had to come straight home and start writing… but alas I was due at my parent’s place for dinner. By the time I got home the mood had passed of course. But if I cannot act, I can at least write. Write my way into life, into love, into existence. Writing is a compulsion for me, I never go anywhere without a pen and notebook. My shelves groan with journals going back 30 years.
I’ve always dreamt of publishing a novel one day. Or writing a screenplay. That has gone on the back burner many times. I even have a novel in progress. But I am also a creature of impulse and find the hard yakka of turning my idea into a piece of art too hard to sustain. I lack the discipline and interest.
Again yesterday I was put in touch with the power of creating – and how that can be the very life blood of our lives. Why am I always yearning for an ordinary, normal life (whatever that might be?) when for so long I abhorred the very idea. It has made me who I am today. Complicated. Not really very stable and grounded. Intense and deep and dark at times. Is it any wonder no man wants to take me on? 
It isn’t just going to be about finding love for me – personal romantic love. I have to create as well. I was born to create. Perhaps I need to find a creative partner – then we can feed off each other, spring boarding to higher states of being.
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