Hours passed. Eyes were fixated on everything and nothing. Bland walls decorated in the standard method of the hotel surrounded me. The same paintings I’ve seen in every other room I’ve stayed in from that chain were there in front of me. They were aesthetically pleasing in a sterile way, the kind of way meant to make you feel at home but has more of the effect similar to a doctor’s office.
I wondered blindly how much the artist was payed for having their work seen by thousands of weary travelers. It seemed such a pointless thought other than knowing that the corporation compensated the artist properly, even if the work wasn’t very artistic. At best I would call it a work of simple pattern making.
As far as mental capacity, I felt tapped out. After spending hours being “switched on” for work, observing, helping, and otherwise learning for the task I was given at a plant hours away from home, I stopped to pick up food each day, went back to my hotel, and then shut off. Tasks that were required for the next day, like showering, shaving, and prepping the clothes were about the only things I kept to. Beyond that, I found myself staring at nothing as the cursor on the screen flashed its rhythmic pattern on my computer screen. Granted, the plan had been to write during this extended time alone. It was an opportunity to have hours of uninterrupted time to dedicate to my craft.
What happened was quite different. I found myself in what I thought was a deep depression, unable to get myself to do whatever I needed to do, besides the bare minimum. Fumbling into the darkness was a better way to describe it; not so much getting depressed or even thinking evil thoughts, rather becoming transfixed on what was going on in my head, the troubles, anger, fear, and anxieties that I tried to ignore for so long.
I haven’t figured out whether it was the exhaustion or that I had grown tired of the crap I kept piling in front of myself that prevented me from chasing the goals I had. I’d like to believe that it was the latter, given that it is sometimes more important the stories we tell ourselves, that is the story I am sticking to.
The process repeated for several days until I finally spoke up and asked myself the questions that I needed to ask myself. Maybe the whole process I went through wasn’t so much thinking about the events in my life or the actions that I continued to take that held me back; the time was more for figuring out the questions that I have to ask, like the Earth was built to figure out the question as to why 42 was the answer. Questions are often far more important than the answer as it pushes us on a journey, a journey for the truth.
With the questions in hand, I’ve started to explore properly as to where all this might be coming from. Maybe now I can get back to writing, as one of the ways I am finding to explore this darkness is to write it.