Being in the creative bubble is not a happy experience.
It is a willingness to suffer.
A need to tear myself open.
To pull and tug at the things that ache.
And shine a light on the rot.
That plagues every inch of the place.
It is tearing open old wounds.
Only to see how I squirm.
How I buckle under the pressure.
It is the most effective way I have of hurting me.
The pain is a necessity.
It keeps me rooted.
Anchored to what’s real.
I don’t do this because I enjoy it.
I do it because if I don’t.
I will lose myself to the storm.
Just as I have a dozen times before.