More and more I feel like I’m losing myself. As if there is… something… stamping… something… out of me. That’s the problem isn’t it? Everything feels so vague, and so uncertain. Nothing tangible within reach, and no tangible description of what’s happening to me. These words here are different, for I’ve been looking for them. I don’t think I’ve found them, but I know they hold some kind of clue to the… something… I’m looking for. Words make things a little more tangible, they do form a description.
Patience, I tell myself. Do I just keep waiting? That isn’t patience, that’s nothing more than passively looking at the world around you and expecting something to happen. Patience is different, more peaceful. Allow time to pass, and be ready for when the right queue comes. And if it doesn’t come? Can I make my own queues? My own oppurtunities?
They say you control your life, because its all just a ride, and you can change it whenever you want; it’s only a choice. But it isn’t ‘only’ a choice, because behind every choice is will. A choice cannot exist without a will to make it.
That’s the thing, I’ve found it! The will, my will, stamped out of me. The Will to discover, to learn, to explore, to live, to be; a Will that grows ever weary, sleepy, lazy, complacent. A side of me screams and screams in a gasping but searing voice, angry at some times, desperate at others, but ignored, or entertained for but a few moments at the best of times. Reverting to the cage of simple patterns and routines I’m stuck inside is just so easy, and without a will, why shouldn’t I do what’s easy? Why is it so easy to ignore that side of me, the voice that screams?
That voice is always being pushed away, further and further; quiet! shut up! shut it up!
I often wonder whether we lose creativity as we grow older. I remember days when imagining entire worlds was as natural as living in this one. I remember the days when dreams made such beautiful contrasts with the world of the day. It was that strange quality of being able to simply let something flow from the mind and onto the paper in a single elegant act. The universe opens up to you in those moments, and you can feel the power of it all coursing through you in a spectacular glimpse of awareness. It simply is, and evaluating it destroys it. Just try to place it on some arbitrary scale or try to give it a score out of ten; it’s like asking your imagination ‘why are you here?’ and offended, or ashamed, or self-conscious, perhaps embarrassed, it closes itself off. Refusing to be evaluated, it destroys itself. Or maybe the creativity chooses to exist somewhere else. I can hear something, its getting louder.
The original problem returns. Creativity feels like an empty concept, just another intangible wisp, and I try and try to give it some sort of description. I turn to words, and they fail to capture the idea. So creativity remains intangible, remains without description. Still, I remember the days, the days where a universe larger than the billions of light-years and fuller than the trillions of stars of this one was accessible with a mere thought, created purely and simply out of the ability to imagine that universe. Words, words are not the only way to dredge up something tangible. Some things you just feel, and they are felt so powerfully that you can more than just know it.
Evaluate me and I am destroyed. Appraising the value — value being a vague, arbitrary, and ephemeral (yet ever-present), idea — of the invaluable is only possible by saying the invaluable does not exist. Since that made no sense, to say it in a simpler way, what something is is infinitely more important than what it is not. This applies to ideas, to works of art, to people, and to all that exists. How do you use this idea? Create, or leave those who do, be. Criticism is empty and irrelevant if it does not inspire a creative act.
Still, I scream.
I’m gonna go grab some ice cream.
“Shut up and enjoy the Music!”