I wrote the below in my journal this morning:
I'm in the bath, hoping for inspiration to caress me but Travelodge baths are too short and the required comfort cannot be reached. I've done a lot of good thinking in the bath – it is a warm, safe space, somewhere to retire from the ravages of the world, to be encased in the soothing essence of life itself. Perhaps it is primal, womb-like, hearkening back to that time before being thrust into the light; when existence was contained, defined, familiar, the excess of daily life diffused and filtered.
Maybe that's the problem with the world today, we have, and are exposed to, too much of everything – always on, always too bright and too loud. #nofilter but not in the Instagram sense.
We cannot exist in a constant state of excitement and agitation, we cannot process a constant deluge – the assault on our senses that prevents us hearing what's inside; our very selves drowned out by the cacophony beyond our own skin.
And so, to retain any semblance of sanity, we crave and must retire to the warm, quiet, lonely places – our sanctuaries, whatever and wherever they may be. We must escape that bigger life, if only for an hour, that we can experience and live our own.
The journal is starting to earn it's keep again, starting to become a little more free-flowing, more expressive. Perhaps I found some inspiration after all.
