Creation Ritual

[1] You start writing, first thing in the morning, on the balcony, drinking mushroom tea. Sit up straight. 1 page minimum. Or write until you start crying. You sense apprehension and that's when you must keep going. You feel the fear and do it anyway. The fear of being seen too clearly. You are learning to love your unoccupied time.

[2] A page of writing is not enough. How to turn it into something tangible? You work within the rules in order deform them slightly. They will find this refreshing. If it made you cry then it will make somebody else cry. But they need a little encouragement. To build rapport before they let you in the door. Something familiar followed by something entirely new.

[3] And now is the time to read, reflect. Look up at the clouds for a while. How does the new information feel? Maybe go out into the street. What does this new world look like? Test out your hypothesis. Not just whether it's true or false, but how? And why?

[4] Once internalised, you must write again. This time from a place of deep understanding. If it changed your life then it will change somebody else's life. Not every thread will reach this point. But the ones that do, they have longevity. Ideas are cheap, but real solutions linger.

[5] Now it's your choice, do you want to share it with the world? Do you want them to be better too? At the cost of your vulnerability? Your ego? Your pride? The truth is, it doesn't exist until you let it free, to enter into a relationship with the world. Until then, it's just another secret part of you.

My father was for the longest time a plastic smile locked under the bed. Before that, he was whatever came out of my mother’s mouth. He was I’ll tell you when you’re older. He was winding smoke, a secret name. That fucking Turk. He was foreign word, distant country. I gave myself up to her hands which also fathered; they shaped me into flinch. Into hesitant crouch, expectant bruise. Into locked door, CIA black site- my body unknown and denied to any but the basest men. I said beat my father into me please, but he couldn’t be found. And when he was, I wished he remained lost. He blamed himself for the men I want.

- Omar Sakr, to be a son.

Chris Abani, Portal

https://instagram.com/p/6AiBQ2IMDO/

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