A Seed Breaks its Shell

A seed breaks its shell.

A baby is born crying.

Every new life

is one of fragility—

a leaf shaking in the breeze.

Bird Breaking its shell

A new project. A new idea. The birth of something ... something fragile and co-dependant.

So, after more than a year of creative stagnation, the urge to write again returns. An urge without a stated aim or any clear direction. Just a simple, eternal impulse towards life and creativity. Granted, it is a weak, trembling seedling now sprouting forth from the muddy soil of my mind, but it is a sprout nonetheless. Yes, I am wracked by uncertainty, anxiety and self-doubt. And yet, I still cling to this stubborn impulse towards breathing life back into these 43 year old bones.

Perhaps I hope that by giving these words form and meaning I might somehow give my own life a little meaning again,

Yes, these words that cry out for their survival. There's no telling whether their roots will take hold before they're burnt up by the harsh, implacable sunlight that is reality.

Indeed, I do not know where I am headed with these ramblings, but the time has come to nourish my flagging spirits. And if that means writing down pages of nonsense in the hope I might dislodge something fruitful from these otherwise withered branches, so be it. After all, to experience life, the seed must first be planted. To flourish, the budding sprout requires water to quench its thirst and sunlight to photosynthesise its cells. It only stands to reason. If my aim is to make something of these words, I must play gardener to them so that they may one day grow into something more substantial, something more meaningful.

You see, for 12 months now I've been living under a cloud of depression, and cursed by my ailing health. For 12 months now I've been clawing my way out of a deep and muddy grave that opened up beneath me without any warning. My love for film and literature vanished. My heart wrung dry. Even my desire to write—something that had sustained me for two decades—had been put to the sword. Ah, and from what cruel realm had this curse descended upon me? Every morning, an inexplicable terror greeted me upon waking. I was convinced I had a fatal illness. Fear of death, failure and eternal loneliness gnawed on my bones. Indeed, the future was a black hole that only promised further suffering.

And now, after 12 months of countless tests and appointments with every medical specialist and charlatan under the sun, I see a faint glimmer of hope rising over the horizon again.

A promise? A promise of a new life, perhaps.

Yes, a new seed is breaking through its shell. A sprout has emerged from the the soil. It is fragile, certainly. But then, doesn't all new life tremble in the breeze.