At my highest highs and my lowest lows, the words seemed to spill out of me. The familiarity of my own language and expression provided a sense of comfort. As of late, i’ve been struggling to conjure up something coherent. Choosing words seems impossible now; maybe my thoughts aren’t as sorted as they used to be.
Coping with the inability to utilize a medium I’ve grown to love and rely on is a form of distress I never thought I’d have to experience. I’ve been at a stalemate with my creativity in which neither of us are letting up. I know life does not stop for anyone; I try to find alternative techniques to see myself out of bouts of overwhelming emotion. I try so hard to put my feelings onto paper, but what was always so simple makes me want to implode as the pressures of the present mount. I crave so intensely the ability to expel with ease and eloquence the way I once did. I’ve been tethering myself to extreme after extreme, hoping that writing will stop feeling like a chore someday soon, and I’ll be able to sort things out. It is just not sustainable.
I’ve been listening to my music loud. I try to drown things out; I’ve grown so tired of picking through my brain. I focus on lyricism. I like it best when it’s poetic, when there are metaphors and meaning. In attempted ignorance, I’ve found solace in words that are not my own. The imaginings of others take root in my mind and they flourish there; it all seems so applicable. Who knew a foreign medium could feel so familiar? I feel so safe here.