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Personal Narratives

Confinement – Day 11

I think that I have recently been able to synchronize with my intuitions; my exercises about listening to these personal information have finally paid off. I have been able to isolate the loud buzzing sounds of information that arise from the collective consciousness, so as to be able to access more easily, and to understand more clearly those personal informational guides (yep, writing these sentences as if the whole was a speculative story👽👾👻🔮). And you know what came through?… Well, since my last confinement log entry, I have been busy working on the technical side of my digital devices, reorganizing contents and files, reediting and recycling old, and badly written pieces, and finally, I have decided that I will try to stick with learning about how to organically optimize this site. Thus in the end, things are not as dramatic as I would have expected them to be, if I may say so… for my stress level was at its highest peak during last year’s lock down, where I was surely very tense, and frighteningly depressed. But I guess that this time I have been able to shoo away these anxieties, by finally accepting to trust the grand design of life, by stopping fighting with what I am unable to change, and to take it easy, to take it as it comes — and believe me, it feels more liberating than I would have ever thought. I now even wish that I had trained my mind earlier, for I know that I would have attained that level of understanding which surely would have saved me from all that mental stress and depression. 

Life goes on; existence is a permeable matter — and what to do more than to wait and see, to trust that life can resolve and repair the wrong that we’ve caused. To wait and see; to wait and occupy my mind with beautiful thoughts and ideas, while doing things that I am passionate about; to focus my attention on continuing to build the future I want, to simply continue existing, to continue living my life, to continue blooming out until I reach complete fulfillment… and perhaps… perhaps if ever the Reaper or any other negative types come peering through the keyhole of my door, perhaps… my too much light will chase away negativity, while the Lord of death will want to wait a little bit more, knowingly that I am trying to do my best to acquire the necessary knowledge, within the enclosure of a world that’s agonizing.

Anyway, I choose zenitude over anxieties, letting go over tension, all the while immersing myself in things like reorganizing, digital cleaning, learning basic optimization, practice edit-on-the-go, reformat the books and prepare the booklets. And that’s all what I’ve been doing recently, knowingly that I am now ready for the next level; for I think that I have attained a level of writing style that I like (exotic, reflection of my bilingualism, seeded with my own essence and wild heart, beautifully imperfect); I also think that I have been able to train my mind to come up rapidly with writing ideas, and to focus while writing; I am now certain that creative writing is my passion, and that I want to keep doing it forever… though what’s separating me from attaining excellence are those grammatical errors, bad syntaxes, my turtleish writing habits, and my limited English vocabulary — I still continue to practice and learn, with hope that someday I’ll overcome all of these writing weaknesses. 

I choose to continue; to trust that everything is being taken care of, and that everything is falling into place. Till then, I hope we all stay safe, and that our mental health and heart might endure the weight of this tentaculous crisis. 

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Personal Narratives

Confinement – Day 1

Some of them say that gloomy and destructive feelings breed the most fascinating creative work, but that’s not at all the case for me. When bad news or any other stressful factors pound on my heart and mind, I instantly creep towards my bed, to slip inside a cocoon where I feel safe from any type of anxieties and fright, while shutting tightly the door of my imagination… as at the same time the light bulb that’s over my head turns off. I am unable to think properly when chaos, disorder, bad news, stressful factors strike. I guess that I am a happy writer – a writer who feels more productive and inspired when things are going well around, when crazy humorous things and people make me laugh, or when I feel immersed, or surrounded by bountiful and mystical beauty that instantly arouse a feeling of epiphany in me. Simply put, I need to dwell inside that field of positive energy so as to be more creative and enthusiastic.

Since I heard the bad news that covid is again spreading its deadly spores all over our island, I can’t seem to get the necessary inspiration to write, or I have all the pain in the world to do so, for the words seem stuck somewhere in between my chaotic feelings, imprisoned tightly inside of that ribcage of mine. Mauritius is a small island, and hearing that more than ten people have already been infected by covid makes my anxiety peak. Hasn’t the reaper had enough? Haven’t we suffered enough? Haven’t we paid back enough for all the sins that have remained clogged in our blood since Pandora opened that box? How many more souls is to be devoured so as to heal earth? Why this automatic upgrade of our universe? Why did it have to happen in our lifetime?… All of these absurd questions that float in my mind instead of inspiration and creativity; while, closing my eyes so as to go deep to clear my head, only the spread of colour red appears and persists, instead of the usual dark of my emptied head. I don’t know if it’s a bad omen, or if it’s my anxieties that make pressure on my mind, but I know that’s not how I usually function.

I am trying to write a poem for the independence day of Mauritius… but the words won’t settle in my head; where all I want to do is lay on my bed to read or scroll through those social feeds that might summon the necessary inspiration and enthusiasm in me. A heavy weight glooms my heart right now, and if the thought of writing poems and fiction isn’t easing that feeling of uneasiness, if the very fact of putting myself in the creative mode so as to annihilate those destructive and negative feelings doesn’t work… then what other activity would? I don’t want to write this type of journal entry; I don’t want to release in blog posts these thoughts on which I am choking on. I don’t want my fear to transpire in my writings.

Today is our first day of lockdown. We entered confinement in the same month as last year. And on Friday and Saturday, Mauritian authors have been invited to a book festival – I would have signed autographs, I would have asked for autographs, I would have bought books I like, I would have finally connected with the other authors and the publishing world. Finally I would have got the necessary advice or help to finally get my books published, I would have finally stepped out of my comfort zone (for I want to believe the quote that says ‘change begins at the end of your comfort zone’), for I am unable to do it online, and I don’t want to try more than I ever have. Same as this World, the Internet will never unfurl for me… and yet, I know that I have a lot to give to this medium. But well, they’ll never know the immensity of my floating body and the power of my influencing mind… how the invisible world has unfurled for me. Yep, I am secretly megalomaniac😅😂🤣.

See, I guess there’s some hope that I might recover from writing block. It remains to see how long it will take for me to recover from this sudden eruption of anxieties, and from there, rush to writing again.

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Personal Narratives

Whimsies – womanly thoughts

In the night, over the ground, I dreamt that I flew over a nest of women who were drunk with happiness and insouciance, who spinned and danced wildly, singing and laughing joyfully, and I, I had a pen and paper in my hand, writing about what I saw during that womanhood festival. And when I remembered that strange dream the next day, I had to ask myself the question about why I write obsessively, but yet unconsciously about stories filled with women endowed with such power and strength, when I myself am prone to regular fits of anxieties.

Lately I’ve been answering through a written piece the question ‘from where precisely stem my interest for writing?’, and where recollecting all of these memories that stem from infancy, so as to compress them in a blog post, has automatically ungraved from my being some things that need thinking. And believe me or not, suddenly I was facing a personal crisis, as each minute of these recent past days plunged me in welcoming reflective moments that concerned my behaviours and attitudes. I now have to admit that I’ve been a pathetic-paranoid-stupid- ungrateful-fanciful-tocqé little whimsical whiner. I have been very immature all along the way. But don’t worry, I surely assume all of those facets that make up my individuality, and never ever feel an ounce of shame for being myself😂. Nevertheless, this little exercise of introspection has helped me to be aware of some of my behaviours, and to once and for all work on the unfounded fears and paranoia that I go through on a regular basis.

When I go through those introspections, I automatically disconnect from writing, from the world; I halfly function, because the work I do on myself at this point sends me into a whirlpool of doubts; and surely I wouldn’t have written this blog post if I had not healed some of my ongoing issues.

In that other dream, I was devouring grapes with Bacchus, all the while enchantresses and witches danced ecstatically, and gossiped loudly, as an opened laptop floated on the geyser of a water fountain. “Take it cool, take it slow, take it happily, take it wildly, take it magically,” I guess that’s the significance behind that dream; I guess that’s the message streaming through internal channels by the spectres of my ancestors – all of these strong women on whose shoulders I stand today. Have to say that I am very proud of the blood that runs through my veins, proud of my unbiased upbringing, proud that I was raised with such a degree of liberty, within a free space that was proper to the growth of my understanding and self-knowledge.

Recollecting all of these memories has shaken me up, and forcefully stirred my emotions upside down… it was the writing therapy that I needed right now, at this point in time where doubts about my writings, but also matters concerning my personal life have been torturing me. I think that I have reached the step of acceptance, I finally made peace with my choices. And I have even been able to find the right answer to the famous question often asked to authors about “why do I write?”, and where the answer to that question has helped me to overcome my sadness concerning my ineptitude and incompetence to publish Darcocyte, or my book of poems… anyway, they are just some random obscure books amidst a lit constellation of other much more interesting and gripping books. I made peace with the fact that I am not ready, that my books are not ready, that the world will never unfurl for me. But now, in spite of all, more than ever before I want to write, simply because after rewinding my mind, I now know exactly what attracts me to this medium. Thus I write because writing itself evokes in me that ocean of freedom in which I’ve always swam in. I feel like I embrace that same degree of liberty, of expansion, of fancy, and of happiness. This illusion of freedom disappears when I write fiction and poems. I feel like a feather that’s carried away by a breeze… will I fall on a lawn filled with dry leaves, or end up on your skin, on your head, your lips, on your desk, in your phone, on a shelf?… Who cares, I am something free that writes wholeheartedly, I am someone who escapes in self-created fictions and poems. I am a woman who equilibrates my days with writing, and fills up the cusp of my soul with the beauty of words.

“You are always birthing me out of that indescribable chasm, that womb floating in deep dark space, always putting me high up in your sky, I, woman of confused feelings and fragile state of mind”…Was that dream-made, self-made, or just some rambling poetic thoughts? Is the discovery of that little me person in a shadow concrete box disturbed me to the point that I had to make up that phantastical world – where I am woman clothed of an elastic skin that deteriorates with time…? But in that absurd dream… in that dreamworld filled of unknown faces and morphing spaces with ghosts, a womb without flowers births me out, a strong hand pulls me out from its belly.

So, women, I hope that through creative writing, or while doing any other type of creative activities, you’ll find that which you have always been searching for; that you find your answers, that you are able to break the illusion of freedom so as to be instantaneously free – free to roam the cosmos in red bed sheets and flowers blooming out of your head.

Happy women’s day in advance. I hope that you’ll visit tomorrow, for I’ll be posting a poem for women’s day. Thank you.