Passion undone; Awakened Apathy, Counteract.

A week ago, I received samples of my books in the mail for proofreading and final evaluation, and today, they are carcasses of which I am somewhat scornful. It is almost as if I crumble in my clothing, just a little bit, upon seeing them. Or like my exhalation suddenly becomes reluctant to escape my lungs; Thus, impossible to intake the next breath that I would indignantly consume, then I am  only spared by the sweet thrill of self sabotage. —— Or like the very breath that I breathe personifies itself, only to absorb its own self, in an attempt to tease me, (then it would fail jut before my last gasp was absorbed and I would see the beams of light that is my new fate.)   The anticipation, excitement, and passion that was the ice to preserve by books has vaporized, re-condense, and solidify in my ribcage. —— I find myself choking on the residue of their aura that has gone dim. Every time someone reminds me that they’re interested in ordering a copy of my book, they rekindle the dream that had manifested into a nightmare, and the residue of the passion that fueled that dream begins to gnaw at my inside.

   I am battling the well-known spirit of apathy, and deliberating whether or not I am still capable to bring forth such things as I have been inflicted to bear, and be-knowingly, promised to bring forth. —— Who would’ve thought that I’d grow to be so disdainful of my own passion? Or eventually be suffocated by the residue of which it was. This too shall pass; I suppose. This too shall pass, I pray.

   Isn’t that just always the way it is, just as you’re so close to achieving something towards which you’ve worked so hard, it begins to distance itself from you.

Two days ago, at rehearsal, I overheard someone’s inquiry for a book or reading materials, so I unselfishly loaned her the very sample copies of my books. I presumed to inform her that they  are sample copies of mine and that there are errors in certain parts therein; Nonetheless, she didn’t mind, and happy accepted my offer. —— A few minutes thereafter, another kid encroached on a conversation  I was having with a friend, asking me if I had anymore books. I was brought to joy, while simultaneously, I despaired after witnessing the flicker of his pupil transformed from a full moon of enthusiasm to a pencil-pointed dot when my answer was a negative.

—— That evening, three kids shared my books, one of whom, read aloud for the hearing of me and my friend. The best part of course, being that someone unanimously left me a note on two of the pages, one of which contrasted one of the poems from one of the books with the well-known and highly respected professional, I won’t say who this person is, but  here’s a vague hint, it is someone whose work we all love so much.

If nothing else, the act of lending my books to this person, or the rippling effect thereof, resonates within me as a subtle, on-time, and deeply appreciated gesture that reminded me why I wanted to become an Author. —— So my work would have a means to be distributed to those to  those whom it may ,so the kindling of their aura can illuminate and bring delight to others, like these three kids.

My books are a mere symbol for something with which I am surely coming to grips, and one more immense for the understanding of the ones who wish me well, and have even made it their responsibility to commend me thereon.

Also, resulting from further encouragement from a special friend, I have taken a rather radical approach to counteract this spirit of apathy that had begun to consume me. I’d like to think that I am once again, pursuing my dream of becoming an Author, an Author that is Published and Released.