I started writing my book almost six months ago. Since this quiet, long forgotten October afternoon, when the above sentence hit my small notebook of paper from the pen in my hand, whilst sitting in the Harrow Starbucks, I have hardly paused to look up at the world; to smell the roses, see the trees, or hear the sounds of frantic humanity rushing past me. I feel as if I am living in a very small Goldfish bowl at the moment; which I guess makes me the solitary Goldfish living inside of it.
I needed to think. I needed to think very long and very hard about every paragraph, sentence, and single word, of the 90,000 or so I have created. The further I have continued the process of writing and editing, the deeper I have moved into the house of my own thoughts and ideas; my aim was, and still is, to create the greatest piece of non-fiction literature I could possibly achieve. I am happy with everything at this point, but I really never expected it to come at a price of almost losing myself in the process. Then again, I never thought about the psychological implications anyhow - I just wanted to write my book.
I am currently deep within the world of humanity - while looking out towards it through my Goldfish bowl. I am not letting anybody, and I do mean anybody - with no exceptions, inside at this moment.... my bowl is clean and the water is just the right temperature for me. The food is okay, the silence calming, for now, and the window it has been perched upon has a lovely view all around, with beautiful sunshine glistening upon it. It is not that I do not wish to let anyone inside, and in all honesty I really need to, as this feeling of enforced isolation for the sake of artistic merit, is leaving me feeling a little jaded and empty. But I need to maintain this focus. I am still taking care of the people and issues of life around me, for they will not simply stop of my asking (though that would be some magic trick), this is simply a sacrifice I must currently undertake. I do not particularly enjoy being cut off this way, and, I still remain social enough for hardly anybody to even notice. But no path in life which is worth traveling, is ever easy, and I have walked way too far along the highway to turn back and go home.
I guess all I can hope is that those moments when I open the small door of my bowl to the external world of those who knocked upon it, to garner my attention - have my attention. There is no personal affront attached to all the people I have become distant from - this is pretty much the slightly selfish and merciless way I attempt anything I care about... full on and with no looking back. It is of a somewhat interesting irony, that stepping inside of myself to figure out what lies outside, has also taught me a sense of human value in everybody else; and it is a stark reminder that all I am really doing, is trying to find a very tiny needle inside one big giant haystack. I have found the needle, and it is held inside a firm grip of my left-hand; I am now slowly finding my way back to daylight.
I wont be inside of the bowl for much longer, for I miss connecting emotionally with people way too much. And, when this book is finally completed, book two (which I know exactly what its subject matter will be), is going to be a much more fun and engaging work... which should bring me right out of myself to full social capacity; which my ego desperately holds a blinding light of a torch for. But, until this time arrives, I will try to enjoy my solitary life as a lonely Goldfish in a small, circular, transparent bowl - as well as keep a good eye out for any hungry felines coming my way...