Wulf has been pacing a bit of late. I have been mentally roaming the psychological woods near my den, restlessly padding the moss covered floor while trying to understand something. I am attempting to get my bearings, and to understand the transition I am experiencing in my writing. I alluded to it in some comments, but I haven’t dedicated a post to it. Until now. I’ll beg a little indulgence from you at this point.
Maybe, I wouldn’t feel so odd about this place I find myself if I was a prose writer. Maybe I wouldn’t feel it as much if I hadn’t published so many poems in the last year. I had no idea I might be considered a writer when this narcissistic journey began. A quick check shows over 380 posts on my blog. Yes, there are some reposts, but the majority of my entries are unique. While many of them are Rush Reboots and Song Lyric Sunday prompted entries, the majority of my creative writings are definitely verse. So poet I am called. Something I would have never, ever imagined.
I’ve written a lot about lust, love (some erotic), and longing as well as works of floral and celestial (sunrise/sunset) inspiration. I’ve come to wonder whether that was just a course that needed running. Are they easier to write about? Were they the safe path? I ask myself this because of the void that is tangible to me. This wordsmith (a humbling honorific), as some of you refer to me, feels as though my tongue has swollen and fills this mouth. It seems thick. Heavy. I still see the same things I saw before. I still see the beauty. I still understand want and need, lust and love. I just find myself fearful of a loop. I do not ask these questions for sympathy or validation. You have given me way more than I think I deserve. It’s these questions I ask of myself.
Is that all there was? Am I afraid to journey ahead into unknown lands and away from the words that brought me some attention (see narcissistic journey above)? Am I afraid that there is a mantle of fraud waiting to be donned? Am I incapable of the complex while remaining unique? Am I even unique at all? Or am I simply projecting a perception that isn’t there? This is a very busy time in the real world for me. Is it just that I have not the head space to withdraw and let the words take hold the way they used to? To let myself go and let the voice become the Wulf? Or is it something else that I haven’t even considered?
So now I seem to push beyond what I wrote. How I wrote. Why I wrote. But is it natural or a forced migration that I find myself in now? Is what I feel part of whatever my journey and process needs to be? Or is this a delusion; just another moment of narcissistic exploration? Am I merely perpetuating a persona and howling at the moon?