When The Road Runs Out Beneath You | Diaries of a Working Creative

Every now and then in life, it feels like the road is running out beneath our feet.

It used to be less conscious for me, but the more time goes on, the more I can feel it coming up ahead.

When I used to trip up, it came like a big crash, some large event that felt unseen beforehand.

But now it’s slower and seen ahead.

Now it sits on the horizon like a building wave, or a city bridge, closing inevitably just in sight.

And maybe you've felt this yourself?

Time has moved on, but you've not.

And the bankruptcy of whatever kind - in how you're spending your time, or relating to others, or conducting your professional affairs - has now run its course.

And a new way must be found.

I'm just a little older now. I haven't learnt everything, but I've learnt some things.

Like how to tell myself, at times like these, to stay calm.

To remember that these things move in waves.

That bad things have happened before, and look 👀 - here I am, still bobbing away in the white water.

Regardless.

And I tell myself too, when the fears come in, real or not, to rate each one one, on a scale of 0-12.

I guess it doesn't matter much why, but honestly that helps.

And I know that sometimes too - the best thing you can do for the work is just survive.

...that sometimes the best thing you can do for the work is just survive.

Even when almost everything is telling you to change your project or start again or make a rash decision or step into cyclical condemnations of yourself or 'just throw it all away'.

As I walk past the South Bank and towards Waterloo station at 9pm on a Saturday evening, watching as the road lifts up ahead.

And I wonder this time, what lies beneath the paving stones?

‘Cause there's always something there.

So the truth probably is, the work requires this consistent friction.

A collapse that leaves space for the new.

I pull off to the side of the walkway as it thins, and the footsteps approach me from behind.

It’s just another man on his phone, but I hate the constant presence coming closer, and would rather wait for him to pass before carrying on myself.

And the front of the station is always busy.

Past the Italian restaurant and the falafel stall and the Sainsbury's and Tesco and the bus stops and the entrance to the cut and the Old Vic theatre and up towards Elephant and Castle where the new build flats swear to us that there’s still some culture going on inside.

And I used to think, I knew there wasn't. But now I claim to know far less.

When the road runs out, and sometimes all you can do is keep making the work.

Sometimes all you can do, is trust it again, and maybe even a bit more than you had to last time.

Back in the flat it’s already late.

So I boil the kettle and take a tea to bed, and listen to the voices chat as I fall asleep.

Honestly, some days it just doesn’t work.

Some days it feels broke.

Some days it feels like the wrong choice or choices.

It feels like the end not a beginning.

But tomorrow the work's still there.

Standing by the door.

Pulling itself together.

Pointing the way.

Telling us there's no choice.

Telling us we need to follow it.

Will ✌️❤️

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