Conversations with My Self.

The blank page taunts me with its… blankness. lol.

I used to be a good writer, a poet, a novelist. Now, I’m at a loss for words. The blocks pile upon each other and I know I’m supposed to accept that.

Yet, a writer needs to write. Am I so afraid of what might emerge from the depths, some deep-sea monster, a Kraken?

Perhaps it’s the pressure of not fucking up, not saying the wrong thing. No one can cancel me if my audience is even smaller than my inner circle, lol.

Maybe that’s a way of shrinking myself, because the freedom to make mistakes means more to me than popularity.

What about fulfilling your purpose though? Doesn’t a writer have something important to say?

Sure. How about, “Fuck your sense of importance!?”

I used to say that the writer is nothing without the reader, for without the receiver, does one truly transmit?

Bullshit. I can keep whispering to myself in my corner of the universe and never have to worry about the drama that happens on social media.

So, you’re hiding then?

I’ve stopped trying to heal the world, and instead am working on healing myself.

You’re hiding.

I’ve always been a hermetic soul. Call it what you will.

You do know it’s the Age of Aquarius, right? This is a once in a 26-millennium party, and you’re hiding in your crystal cave.

The Ancestors are here. The Stone Nation. The Bats. The Primordial Waters.

The humans have hurt you.

The humans have hurt everyone.

Thus, you are not alone.

My service doesn’t seem appreciated here.

You want to be the CEO, not the janitor?

But I am the fucking janitor, aren’t I?

You’re a little more than that.

I’m the empath who cleans up everyone’s shit for little pay and little respect. That’s a janitor’s job.

You’re ready for a promotion, I take it?

What do you have in mind?

How about Healer? Teacher? Storyteller? Alchemist? Environmentalist? Take your pick.

I am all of those things. But this world doesn’t want my service.

You’re not here to help everyone. Only those who see you. But they can’t see if you if you’re hiding in your cave.

I need answers first.

Read your books then. Journal. Continue to sing the songs of your ancestors. Continue learning Spanish. Continue writing poetry. Continue to dance.

Okay.

Right now I need you to rest.

Do you want me to delete this or post it?

Are you ashamed of the fact that you talk to yourself when you’re supposed to be blogging because the only time you blog is at 4 AM when you’re too tired to think straight so you have to split your mind into pieces so this time is actually productive?

Oh. I thought you were my higher self.

At this point, I am.

What about the other posts?

Your grandmother and great-grandmother are here. Would you like to say hello?

Mijo, you have many cobwebs in your face. It’s okay. You do not need to be clear every night. Go to sleep now. Big day tomorrow.

Okay.

One day you will feel more confident of my voice because I will speak to you in Spanish. When you are ready.

Si, Abuelas. Cuando yo estoy listo.

Buenas, Mijo. Te amamos.

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