My head is a loose thread duffle bag, filled with ideas. With a reoccurring thought to myself that I need to do something with them before that bag rips and I start losing them.
But how do we get these ideas out. When we live in a world that doesn’t allot time for creativity. We live in a world where the creative ideas in the world get squashed by the repetitive artificial blanket we decided we’d one day fall asleep under.
I want to create, I do. My mind constantly crushes my chances though. It rips at me. Tears away. Pummels me with constantly thoughts, nightmares and waking terrors.
How do I, one man on a planet filled with billions of people, expect to do something that will be seen by the world when I can’t even step into a bathtub without it making me think about the inevitability of a coffin? When me attempts to rest and collect myself are faced with screaming visuals caked with residue that comes from existing deep in a thick fog of inevitability.
And would this world even care if I completed it? The world doesn’t care about the written word anymore. Even these blogs I write, mostly feel like I’m scrawling them onto pieces of paper that I’m just going to drop into a dark well.
We live in a world where amazing books only exist after the movie has been made.
We live in a world where colleges, institutions built on furthering education, take in students under football scholarships. The majority of them graduating with a fifth grade reading level.
We live in a world where we can’t build out futures because we don’t know what the future is. Where the rules of our life our controlled by a two party system that gets along with the grace of two toddlers arguing over a single toy.
We live in a world where are lives are so mundane and uneventful that we can’t ever appreciate a drive without going to our smartphones for solace. Making empty social connections in a despite plea with an unfeeling device, asking it to remind us that we’re alive.
How then. How do I plant my feet and make something worth while. How do I get that laptop in front of me and actually create something more than a silly blog without being immediately discouraged?
I know I can’t be a drone forever. I can’t. I’m not mentally built for it. I constantly fight at my cage and bite fingers that get too close, like that one dog every shelter has that doesn’t seem to understand the hidden rules that will get you taken in by a family.
I keep the ideas alive in my head. I add to them. I write internally. There’s a library of books that have never been published over by the rack of movies that have never been filmed.
But they stay there for now because it feels like I can’t be heard. Like I don’t have the strength. Every scream feels like I open my mouth wide to yell, to make noise, only to have a small soap bubble emerge that floats around a bit, aimlessly, before popping.
My movements and attempts to grasp at straws feel moot. Like life is this giant bully that has lifted me up on high and dangled me by my underwear on a wall hook in which I can flail about, only to be freed by others.
Push me world. For fuck’s sake. Give me something. Let me know I’m being heard. There has to be something that can give me a sign that I can do this. Fuck.