The truth of the matter is: I haven’t written anything in a long while. I haven’t felt inspired, and in truth, I’ve been crushed and suffocated under the weight of my own psychosis. The last few weeks have been detrimental to my mental evolution. In light of this terrifying realization, I’m inclined to suffer through this creative expulsion, all the while wincing.
Every piece of media I ingest seems pointless and overly negative, even when it’s hopeful. I’ve come to terms with every shit relationship I’ve ever been in, yet now I find myself in an emotionally unstable one … with myself.
In these darkest of times, I resort to accosting my female counterparts with mundane questions, thoughts, inquiries and epiphanies (of sorts) as they serve as my emotional sounding board. I turn inward, and refuse to take any steps forward; existing solely on the fruitlessness of lateral moves.
Many nights, this view is my only consolation, and a trivial one at that. I suffer from wanderlust, and as such, I rarely find peace in my location. I love to convince myself that every place is semi-permanent. The only place I’ve ever been closest to true happiness came with a coast and an extremely active night life. Does this revelation prove that I’m mature enough to at least acknowledge my immaturity in the daily grind? I’m a city bird, but evidently my city of present Hell doesn’t hold a candle to ones I’ve left behind. Relationships with sunsets and palm trees that I might never get over. Even the ugly parts shone, in retrospect. Much like being dumped, it stings even if you know in your clearest of minds that it had it’s major downfalls too.
This ramble has no actual bottom line. I’ve learned that removing these incorrigible incoherences from my subconscious “dropbox” and fashioning them into compound sentences with impeccable grammar usually satiates the theoretical pressures that are constantly clouding my days.
I suppose the majority of all my creative leaks tend to insinuate negative conditions within my miniscule existence on this planet already home to 7 billion others; not so different from me or my struggles to understand synapses that cannot be tamed or held accountable. Rather, I learned somewhere in the throes of later adolescence that my particular art’s measure is directly proportionate to the amount of pain, anguish and angst that, in essence, supplies its madness.
and there, I’ll leave you now.
Another fallen gladiator of recklessness. 26 is nostalgic and youthful. I can just make out a horizon of petrifying future expectations. I don’t recognize my consciousness and I can’t begin to speculate what that means. I’ve surrendered to the “professionals” and their theories on my psyche’s evolution … or revolution … either being applicable.
Days past remain monotonous. I realize that expletive is overused. Expletive is certainly correct. In what other way would you define a word so terrifying and damnable?
I fear, now. In years prior, there wasn’t an adventure I’d recoil from. Be it a mental, emotional, subconscious journey into the figurative unknown or be it an actual quest for debauchery, adrenaline and a feeling of connect in its purest form. I’m jealous of the movies and their raw emotion accompanied always by the perfect score. Evoking proper response always seems to come so easily by way of movies or network television. I drown in the exact reactions they strive for. If nothing else, it makes me feel less alive instead of moreso … because in order to experience those on my own, I need the perfect counterpart to drown along with me. I’m certain that the romance in merely living is my only true desire. The more times I dive into its possibility, the more painful it becomes. It’s proved an invaluable creative outlet. Pain surely does equate to beauty in all the ways my romance requires it.
I fear, now. I’m losing my ability to control time and space per my own existence. I’ve plateaued. At one time, the future was for my molding and taking. My failures and even triumphs have yielded a new, psychological response that I’m not altogether sure that I have any control over. I live in a world where my rawest need is for song lyrics and movie scores to be real-life explanations of our human condition. Sadly, to wish for a connection based on anything other than the rational is to be juvenile. In of itself, that is the greatest failure of humankind.
I digress and remain unwavered, still. To be jaded is to surrender yourself to age, experience and disappointment. It’s not plausible to attempt explanation of what creative stimuli evoke in the way of passion and possibility and it’s far underestimated.
Myriad Creatures ensures a viable creative atmosphere. My struggles for weeks have overtaken the right sphere, rendering my intelligence lost. I’ve been putting up various ”away” messages. Remember those? Nothing more than an excuse to have vacancy on your mind. Missing in action. Away from my desk right now. Out of office. In case of an emergency … go to hell.
I’ve discovered certain somethings that provide my innovative lifeblood. Some … well, most … are extremely painful. The disconnect between my peers and myself. The disconnect between what I inferred from my surrounding versus what the reality is. The world has changed so much from the stories I’ve read and heard, passed through the grapevine from grandparent to parent to child. Each filled with the light of promise, intrigue and possibility. Brimming over with love; whatever that actually means. The illusion has grown far dimmer at 26. How dismal my outlook must be, you assume. Well, no. I falter often, almost as though its my destiny to do so over and over again, learning and re-learning the same lessons with subtle differences. Each time, determined to regain an appreciation for love and truth, in their rarest of forms. Each interaction substantiates my claim that goodness exists, masked every so masterfully behind all those things I’ve come to love as a “millenial.” Online presences and phantom texts prove outlets for deception … moreso than they are outlets for open communication. Technology implores us to reconnect … to regain our relationship with one another … instead we abuse our privilege long enough to have our cake and eat it too. Forging new relationships quickly eliminates romance, chivalry and the hopefulness in a new conversation. The spark is extinct. Replaced by a fuck. Setting into motion a new mess of uncertainty created from the lack of disclosure. Does any of this make sense?
The world we live in is a far stretch from the one I remember.
I haven’t been much for writing lately. There came a time when I realized I was being watched, scrutinized. I faked every scribbled word and held my truth prisoner in my own body. I keep fighting off this feeling that I’m wasting “my gift,” dare I say I have one. Certain trite phrases are to be avoided. I hold myself to a higher standard that, every so often, I shock myself in reaching. I say to myself, “I took classes on this,” or “I’ve been praised in my ability to form sentences in a way so pleasing and pure that it has been used as examples for future generations.” Then I watched “Stuck in Love” on Netflix. Lily Collins’ character was published at 19 with a novel filled with by her tribulations involving divorce and disconnect. The movie was stirring, to put it mildly. I felt ashamed. I haven’t done anything noteworthy with the written word since … college? That isn’t who I am. I took to my journal. The breach happened. I knew it without knowing it. Lying to my own ballpoint pen. Corneas, pupils, irises burning through my pages like a gossip column. My freedom came to a halt. I haven’t started up again since. I have too many thoughts that lack connection. I think about addiction. I think about personality versus characteristic. I think about telling a story with no ending. Willingly putting myself in a place of pain to yield an artistic flow. Why is it when you’re happy, you can’t write worth a damn, but when you’re on the verge of complete disaster, raucous, disbelief, depression, and mostly anger … you have the creative influx of an Adobe Cloud feed? I keep saying to myself that I’m wasting my truest form of self. I’m not using it, letting it go to waste. I’m indulging in life … the “fun” and the “good” when I should actually embrace Wittgenstein. The only man to ever suffer with such a likeness to mine. Nothing makes any goddamn sense. I have no truth. I have to rectify my meaninglessness before it is too late. I’m 26 and have done nothing of note. I’m failing and flailing in my disaster.