Originally written April, 2016.
Trying to unwrap me from the experience of taking myself so seriously. I know I do it. How do I know? Because I can’t just let words flow from my heart, I can’t just paint something, or sculpt. It comes out, well, all shit.
Then there’s the times when it works. When I get to have it. When it happens. But I didn’t make that happen either. I just allowed it to. How could I even help this? I keep doing, trying, attempting. Failing. Not living up to ‘my standard’, showing off my work to others who might judge it, me. This is all such a cliche, but if cliches are so common, then why don’t I see others with the same observation?
Perhaps they’re afraid. The judgement can be harsh and leave us feeling worthless. I think in those cases I worry about suicide. If I were to really just express and not think, what would happen if real expression wasn’t met with disregard. There’d be lots of questions, firstly. Always questions. Seriously, a fucking ocean of them. To drown in, to lose my identity in. If I can’t answer them all, then I must not exist, right? The lack of concreteness to the experience is unsettling and when I think I know who I am, I swim up to more questions.
Right when I think I know who I am, what I want to do, who I want to be, I realize it’s all pointless. We all die in the end anyway.