The world didn’t stop. My heart still beats. Nobody told me they hated me.
After nearly a week of not writing a reflection, not much has changed in the larger picture. Yet I stressed throughout the week over my lack of reflection production. The pressure to perform doesn’t always come from external sources. A lot of the time the source happens to emerge from one’s own imagination.
I’m conflicted about publicly displaying my reflections and the pressure I feel to produce them. Why? What does it matter in the big scheme of things? Who cares what I write? Or if I write?
I know some people have expressed their appreciation. I know art and writing move people and can have an impact. I get it. But I want to get at some of these questions myself.
I’m reflecting today on life as embodied meaning-making and what that looks like particularly for me.
No answers come to mind; only a bunch of questions.