Words, words, words
I'm having a hard time finding words. I keep reading, hoping that I'll be inspired by the words written by others, and that those words will be like a key in my brain, unlocking my creativity. It's like there's this well of colored juices and the depths of color are too far away for my bucket. The chain gets heavier every time I try and send it farther down, down into oblivion, and when I bring it back up, it seems to bring the mists of hopelessness with it.
I don't feel particularly sad about this, only frustrated. I'm angry. There's so many things that I can't do right, but I could always count on the words. No matter what's going on, there would always be words to comfort me, words for me to expel and shatter and stomp on. My talents seem so very few, and writing is the one passion that lives in my heart, the one flame that never goes out however dark the shadows grow around it. I don't know what to do to find the words. I don't know why they've left me.
Am I not asking the right questions? Is that why I have no answers? The silence that throbs in my mind is deafening and I carry it with me to bed every night. It haunts me and I lie awake, turning from side to side, trying to find some words to lessen the ache in my bones. I am so tired. It's not like I've been working very hard. It's been a lazy January so far. But inside I feel weary.
I've turned to watercolors and my sketchbook to give me some artistic release. It's only when I'm thinking of one thing and listening to another that I can really paint or draw, though. And the lines that come out of my pen aren't really satisfactory. Even when I create something half-beautiful, the next time I look at it, I'm disgusted. I'm annoyed because it's not what I want to be creating.
Where is Rapunzel and her frying pan? I need her to knock some sense into me. Or maybe a horde of vandals could come through my room, trampling everything that I don't need to worry about and leaving me battered and bruised, but unbroken, not buried in self-doubt and insecurity. If I can lift myself up from the mud that I let drag me down, maybe I'll find gold when I wash under the waterfall.
There's so many beautiful jewels in the maze of caves behind me. Through the door and a little to the left, I can look up and see eagles winging high into the sun-blue sky and feel free. Where is the moon? I could stand on the frozen ground and spin in circles in the non-existent starlight. Where have they all gone? They're not diamonds anymore. Only broken bits of quartz run all over with cracks. I feel so lost.
Come back to me. Silver, gold, colors in mirrors, words, where are you? I'm calling, but you don't answer. It is me who has gone away? Tell me, and I'll come back. We can dance together and sing the soulful songs of yesterday when the moon was full and golden and never was only a memory.
I don't feel particularly sad about this, only frustrated. I'm angry. There's so many things that I can't do right, but I could always count on the words. No matter what's going on, there would always be words to comfort me, words for me to expel and shatter and stomp on. My talents seem so very few, and writing is the one passion that lives in my heart, the one flame that never goes out however dark the shadows grow around it. I don't know what to do to find the words. I don't know why they've left me.
Am I not asking the right questions? Is that why I have no answers? The silence that throbs in my mind is deafening and I carry it with me to bed every night. It haunts me and I lie awake, turning from side to side, trying to find some words to lessen the ache in my bones. I am so tired. It's not like I've been working very hard. It's been a lazy January so far. But inside I feel weary.
I've turned to watercolors and my sketchbook to give me some artistic release. It's only when I'm thinking of one thing and listening to another that I can really paint or draw, though. And the lines that come out of my pen aren't really satisfactory. Even when I create something half-beautiful, the next time I look at it, I'm disgusted. I'm annoyed because it's not what I want to be creating.
Where is Rapunzel and her frying pan? I need her to knock some sense into me. Or maybe a horde of vandals could come through my room, trampling everything that I don't need to worry about and leaving me battered and bruised, but unbroken, not buried in self-doubt and insecurity. If I can lift myself up from the mud that I let drag me down, maybe I'll find gold when I wash under the waterfall.
There's so many beautiful jewels in the maze of caves behind me. Through the door and a little to the left, I can look up and see eagles winging high into the sun-blue sky and feel free. Where is the moon? I could stand on the frozen ground and spin in circles in the non-existent starlight. Where have they all gone? They're not diamonds anymore. Only broken bits of quartz run all over with cracks. I feel so lost.
Come back to me. Silver, gold, colors in mirrors, words, where are you? I'm calling, but you don't answer. It is me who has gone away? Tell me, and I'll come back. We can dance together and sing the soulful songs of yesterday when the moon was full and golden and never was only a memory.
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