This morning, the light turned on and I jumped out of bed beaming with an idea. I grabbed my box of paints, bag of brushes, and a couple of plastic bottles cut off mid-way to fill with water. I spread my materials and utensils out on the table and, with a pencil in hand, I sat down to sketch a rough draft. As soon as the tip of the pencil touched the paper I felt a shift in the atmosphere. The room seemed slightly and increasingly colder. “Was the window open?” I thought to myself, “Where is that cold breeze coming from?
On the paper, I made a long curved line, intending to make several more, but the cold breeze was now coming in short spirts directly on the back of my neck. I turned my head and there he was, dressed in black slacks, black shoes, and a dark grey shirt. His hair was also black and his face was pale and frowning, and his eyes seemed to pierce my skull so to both read my thoughts project his own. “Oh, please, don’t get up,” he said, “I would much rather you sit there and think about how you plan to spend these precious morning hours.”
I looked back at the table and then at my hands. The feeling in my hands slowly left my hands and the pencil fell to the floor. I tried to stand up but thick ropes had wrapped themselves tightly around my waist binding me to my chair.
“Going somewhere? I thought you had another one of your… grandiose ideas,” he said. He stood about two meters behind me so I couldn’t see him but I swear I could smell the disdain in his breath. He continued, “Go ahead. I’m sure this one will be much more successful than the last one, not to mention the one before that, and the one before that, and the one before that.” Suddenly the strength in my neck gave out and I could no longer hold my head up. My stomach fell through the floor into an abyss.
I wanted to scream for help, but I no longer had a voice. I could see the knot that tied me to the chair, it was simple. I could easily undo it, if only my arms would respond.
Him: You know, I would rather not waste my time on you, but then again, I have nothing better to do. So, here I am to remind you that you do have better things to do. This could all be over, right now. Just promise me to put that stuff away and check your e-mail, or wash the dishes. Oh, I have an idea. Why don’t you put your guitar on eBay along with those other things you’re always making noise with? Maybe someone who actually knows how to play them will take them off your hands. You could use the money to buy nicer furniture or something.
My body may have been paralyzed but I could still feel the splintered stake pushing on my back, threatening to pierce my heart. He took a few steps forward, leaned over and spoke directly in my left ear.
Him: Stop being so selfish and stubborn. You are too old for this. You have other responsibilities. Quit now before you make an even greater fool of yourself.
I felt a spark and a little flame ignited right between my belly and my chest. It was like a hot coal of rage that burned a hole through my skin and dropped inside my body. My breaths became short and rapid. Up until now, I had hoped that someone would come and save me. But now I understood that no one was coming. I was alone and it was up to me to set myself free. But how? Powerlessness washed over me leaving goosebumps all over my body. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. When I opened my eyes, I saw the corner of the paper moving as I felt a soft warm breeze come from the table. “You are not powerless,” the warm breeze seemed to whisper, “You can’t use your body but your mind is more powerful than you can imagine.” There was something about the way it said imagine. It echoed in my mind. It wasn’t just the last word in a typical phrase. It was an instruction. My limp head facing the floor, I fixed my eyes on the pencil that had fallen out of my hand. Though I couldn’t speak out loud, in my mind I spoke to that pencil, “Come to me.” It started to shake and then it slightly levitated. I could control it. It was connected and aligned with my imagination. I brought it up to my waist and touched the rope with the eraser. The rope vanished. My body fell out of the chair and hit the cold tile floor. My pencil still floating in the air, I raised it up and pointed the tip towards the unwelcomed guest. “No,” he said, “I’m here to help. I only want what is best you.”
The pencil grew to the size of a spear and slowly moved towards his chest. He grabbed its tip with both hands trying to stop it but it wasn’t stopping. I felt something invisible lift off of me. My strength slowly reentered my body. I carefully stood to my feet. I faced him, and as I raised my hands chest high, paint tubes and brushes lifted up off the table behind me. Then I spoke words that seemed to spring out of my soul, “I was created to create and that is exactly what I will do! I won’t listen, neither to your lies nor your half-truths anymore! You are not welcome here! Get out!” “I’ll be back!” he screamed. “I know,” I replied, “and I will be expecting you.”
The door opened behind him and he was sucked out and thrown into the horizon. A sensation of peace filled the room and I took a deep breath. I sat back down at the table and continued drawing.
Do you identify with this story? Do you struggle with your inner-critic telling you can’t or you’re not enough? If so please tell me about it in the comments.