I draw three fingers gently down a page of sheet music and examine the dust. I left it open weeks – months – ago as a “Come and play me” but every day and every glance the pressure to do something else or the realisation I didn’t have time (my own fault: I didn’t make time; I didn’t complete other things quickly enough) won. I look at the notes and sing them in my head as I think of shopping and check the time yet again. Too bashful anyway to make a sound when I’m not alone. My camera is the same: dusty, waiting, unsure of its future. My imagination floods other worlds into my head, people I’ve never met appear to me and words unfold never to be spoken, never to be written. To be creative, to be musical, to thrive on sounds and words and images that I am part of, that come at my own pace, but to live in a world where sounds and words and images are now a media bombardment, gives me a sense of worthlessness: “We don’t need your creativity, Rachel,” the world seems to say, “Do something more useful. We have TV, we have radio, we have famous musicians, famous authors, big money stuff that draws respect.” Creativity that once served like a gentle, loving gift is now owned, branded, thrust upon us.
To just do, to just feel, to just enjoy has become pointless.
So here I am. Left. Frozen in moments. Waiting for the time when it will be okay. Living a lie. Stiff with impatience and boredom at a world that doesn’t pay with joy by the experience but with the dollar and the pound by the hour.
Wondering “Who am I?”