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lament of the spark killer.

I’m not certain that I’ve ever really created art that I’m wholeheartedly proud of, but ever since the time on the inside I haven’t produced anything.
Actually it’s been since January, 2016 hasn’t been that great for me, hell it hasn’t been that great for any of us, period, but I’ve been disjointed. My body mind and soul are not one. Hell, they aren’t even three. I’m in deep need of healing, May was just an intermission in the year of the disconnect.

I have such a deep need for healing and escape that I’m putting too much on the act of creating. I can’t just write a word to write it, or dip a paint brush in paint just to feel it, or cut or sand, or glue, without trying to push it to the nth degree. I need it to save me, from my job, from my life, from my boredom, from being overwhelmed.

This is a different fight than creating the discipline of sitting down and being creative whether you feel it or not. I fully believe in that. In showing up and doing the hard work even when you don’t feel it. But that’s not what I’m doing. I’m caging and trapping any spark of idea, I’m trying to tame it and harness it into a one way trip out of this hell hole.

And instead of getting anything done, instead or producing anything new, and small and beautiful and life giving, I’m strangling it and wearing the dead carcass like new couture. I’m stamping out the small spark before it even has a chance. I’m the serial killer of all ideas, maybe of hope itself, not to be overdramatic or anything…

I know it needs to stop. But my desperation has to stop too, taking steps when all you do is kill things is hard work. I bet it’s easier to, you know, let things live. That is apparently not on the agenda, every day with no spark means one more day for the soul to shrivel into dust and convince me my future is life as a giant rag for dusting.

Desperation makes you do crazy things, it makes you think dumbbells are lifesavers and then by the time you realize your mistake, it’s too late and you’ve tied yourself to it and sunk a few hundred yards into an ocean cavern.

I feel too tired to battle the whole thing, on a good day it takes work to show up, it takes an impenetrable mountain of work to show up through your unhealth.

But that’s what healing is, right? Making yourself make the most miserable decisions because later you’ll be less miserable because of it.

And I don’t want to. I just want to hide under my air mattress until year two thousand and never.

The creation doesn’t save you, the act of creating can.

I can’t swallow that, it’s anatomically impossible, that truth is choking me to death and it could be the only thing that saves me. It’s like living a Shakespeare play.

I want results. I want to be whole. Now. And everything else feels unbearable. Unattainable. The cycle continues I remain broken and frustrated, unable to create, unable to see. I start to ask for today to not bring me a spark, I don’t want to kill it again. I ignore ideas, I don’t want to watch myself get excited for nothing. I’m becoming hopeless and I don’t want to be the vessel of hopelessness I see in the mirror and if I don’t dwell too long maybe I can ignore what I’m becoming. But maybe that’s just today’s story.

Life comes and goes like the tide, it waxes and wanes like the moon, it breathes like lungs. Full and high, or low and empty. Water, Air, light. Submit and conquer or fight and die. If you can feel it means you are still alive. Which is always the bad news and the good news.

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