The only thing more infinite than space, is the options we have to fill it. I’ve moved around a bunch in my life; tried many different types of living quarters. It’s been a perpetual search for the right room to write in.
Sometimes that room was outdoors, on the water, over the coffee shop, next to the park, along the river, in that cabin, studio, condo, tent, sailboat, I once spent that chilled to the marrow winter living in, on, near.
I miss them all, yet I’m always anxious to pound the next nail my hat will hang on.
Currently, I’ve moved three times in the one house I’m living in: from the patio, spare bedroom, to the now living room of this, the first rental home in decades I’ve had to lease myself into. I know it’s only a matter of time before I vacate the contract and continue the search for that mythically paramount home for life begging me from the periphery to occupy, occupy me now.
Still, the way we choose to operate in our space, how it feels, next to the window or not, by the heater, fan, cracked door, or fridge … is up to our own, perfect, reasoning. But no matter the space we fill to do the work in, the pros can only come from that hidden spot deep inside us, which we house with our heart, mind, and flesh.
Somewhere deep within that matrix of our etherial arteries, the imagination can punch holes in the stubborn walls which surround us, illuminating the dark stuff that lurks in the crimson shadows of our inner essence. Here’s to opening that vein and letting it bleed.