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.