I just do art because I’m ugly and there’s nothing else for me to do.
It is often said that you should endeavour to find someone who talks about you like you put the stars in the sky. Someone who is your world. Someone who makes you feel “complete”. He is none of those things. He is the stars in my sky: tiny pinpoints of brightness in an endlessly vast, dark and confusing eternity. The only thoughts I can connect. He’s not my world. A world is the space in which I can live, and I can move away from my world even in my mind. No, he is more like a universe. He envelops my existence and I cannot escape it, not even if I wanted to - I wouldn’t know how, because how does one even think about not existing? I don’t mean dying. I mean my matter being dispersed across all aspects of time and space that I have ever been in, converted into new, different energy. That is an impossible thought, because I feel so real. He doesn’t make me feel “complete”, he makes me feel real. I exist, in his universe that I am so enthralled in, and I have no intention of ever not being his reality.
Even the writing about writer's block is beautiful. Your words are precious and beautiful and you ARE significant. I'm not a star and I wish I was, and if I was I'd tell you just how important you are.@Anonymous
Wow thank you, I really needed to hear that today (or any day, really). I think every creative person feels insecure and insignificant or like their work doesn’t have integrity or isn’t meaningful, but these messages make all the difference! Have a great day.
I’ve finally grasped at the clock hands; acquired hours upon hours of time; collected seconds of my own under the mattress. But instead of letting my creativity finally spill over, I feel useless. Everything I write might as well be written on the back of empty packets of coffee and other items in the pile of screwed up ideas I keep throwing out, traced in the dust of burnt out incense or emptied out down the drain. I can’t write, I can’t even speak. I peel my lips apart each morning to greet a cup of coffee and another day where pen doesn’t touch paper without being mingled with tears of frustration. I am just a writer in a sea of writers, drowning. The words are blunt and hard to wield, and I feel as a single droplet of water echoing against the walls of a cave, insignificant and fleeting in existence. ”I am significant!” I shout through my window, demanding of the stars, but I know when they don’t answer me, that I’m not at all.
I’m no longer afraid to be myself.
I’ll Get The Next One
All change please! This train
Terminates here — attention:
Please ensure you have
Your baggage with you
(Step away from the platform)
At all times, listen
Do not lean on door
Do not step on to the tracks
Do not fall in love
The train will depart
From a platform you can’t reach
In half a minute