(no subject)
i don't consider myself a creative person. other people do, for some cracked out reason, especially people who knew me back when i was this Grand Musical Phenomenon. but i don't, at all. because i see creative people all around me -- go out of my way to surround myself with them, actually -- and i'm just not like them. they have a passion, a drive, an all-encompassing need to express themselves.
i don't. there's nothing here. no medium, no need, no passion. this journal is the closest i get to a medium, and even this, three-quarters of the time, descends into babbling drivel. or else i'm getting halfway, maybe three-quarters of the way through an entry, and i get stuck, and i have to literally force myself to finish writing, come to a conclusion. because once i lose it, it's just gone. if i actually posted half of these entries when they actually finished, half the time, they'd end in mid-sentence, mid-thought. i think back to when i was in college and i would write random stream of consciousness pieces (literally, pieces with no punctuation or paragraph breaks that weren't inserted as an afterthought or anything like that) -- the ones i didn't have to force myself to finish -- and i'm jealous of that girl who used to exist. i couldn't even imagine doing that anymore. because even with my brain being as flighty and random as it is, there IS no stream of consciousness. it's not a steady stream. it comes in stops and starts and it's always open to revision.
and the problem is, i lied up there. i said i don't have an all-encompassing need to express myself. it's not true. i do. i just don't know how. i have no medium. it's as though the station broadcasting my creativity has gone off the air -- antenna problems, or some such -- and the technician's in bermuda for a month and has been so dissatisfied lately that he's probably not coming back anyway..... i know it's still there. sometimes, i can feel it, gurgling inside of me, threatening to bust its way out. but there's nowhere for it to go, so i just keep on suppressing.
i wish i could find an outlet. or maybe this is my outlet. my dad tried to convince me of that, earlier this year while we were in orlando. he told me to print out some of my old (college year) journals and send them to him, and that he'd read them and try to get them out to publishers or something. and as tempted as i am, to do that, it makes me so uncomfortable. because it doesn't seem right that the only cultural contribution i can make is, well, my life. because i'm not a creative person.....but maybe this is all i have.
i don't. there's nothing here. no medium, no need, no passion. this journal is the closest i get to a medium, and even this, three-quarters of the time, descends into babbling drivel. or else i'm getting halfway, maybe three-quarters of the way through an entry, and i get stuck, and i have to literally force myself to finish writing, come to a conclusion. because once i lose it, it's just gone. if i actually posted half of these entries when they actually finished, half the time, they'd end in mid-sentence, mid-thought. i think back to when i was in college and i would write random stream of consciousness pieces (literally, pieces with no punctuation or paragraph breaks that weren't inserted as an afterthought or anything like that) -- the ones i didn't have to force myself to finish -- and i'm jealous of that girl who used to exist. i couldn't even imagine doing that anymore. because even with my brain being as flighty and random as it is, there IS no stream of consciousness. it's not a steady stream. it comes in stops and starts and it's always open to revision.
and the problem is, i lied up there. i said i don't have an all-encompassing need to express myself. it's not true. i do. i just don't know how. i have no medium. it's as though the station broadcasting my creativity has gone off the air -- antenna problems, or some such -- and the technician's in bermuda for a month and has been so dissatisfied lately that he's probably not coming back anyway..... i know it's still there. sometimes, i can feel it, gurgling inside of me, threatening to bust its way out. but there's nowhere for it to go, so i just keep on suppressing.
i wish i could find an outlet. or maybe this is my outlet. my dad tried to convince me of that, earlier this year while we were in orlando. he told me to print out some of my old (college year) journals and send them to him, and that he'd read them and try to get them out to publishers or something. and as tempted as i am, to do that, it makes me so uncomfortable. because it doesn't seem right that the only cultural contribution i can make is, well, my life. because i'm not a creative person.....but maybe this is all i have.