// A Small and Brief Comeback //

I’ve been trying to write in this space again for quite some time. But all I can seem to do these days is come up with half thoughts, or ideas I know could be something, but haven’t figured out what yet. Like just the other day I was thinking about how we’re all really the same, yet our little lives are somehow still compelling. We’re all searching for love and rejecting it. We’re all wondering what our purpose might be if there even is one at all. We’re all staring up at the stars or out at the horizon from time to time – feeling a little lost or alone or at peace. We all think we’re different, but all secretly know we’re the same, but refuse to be honest with ourselves. I think that’s part of why I struggle to write here. I know it’s extremely likely that each of you have had these same thoughts and I want to write something original. But I guess when I really think about it, that’s kind of the whole point of writing – you read to feel less alone in your thoughts, and you write in hopes someone will understand you. If I were writing unrelatable words here, it would sort of definitely absolutely be a pile of trash.

I am not an artist destined for the world’s eyes, but merely an artist of my bedroom, late at night when my mind goes wild with questions and creations and dreams. I scribble words I can rarely re-read, and when I am able, they make little sense except a phrase or two. 

I am an artist to a few dear listeners who are desperate to hear the voices of those around them. Readers consumed by their empathies and need for connection; they are artists too.

I am not for the world for my thoughts are not worldly. They are stuck, cemented in the grooves of the foot trails of my feelings. I cannot forget my words from the past even though the past no longer exists. So I write about it because I cannot write accurately about the future. I am an artist of yesterday and yester-years. Bound tightly by the events I’ve already lived, forced to remember.

My words may not be destined for more than my own sclera, but I am content with that. Because I’m allowed to say I love apples this month and that I despise apples next – and have the pleasure of never feeling the cold hand of critique when I have changed my mind.

I am an artist. But I worry my art is fading. Like a candle that’s been burning too long and deep, drowning in itself, soon to go dark and cold. Instead of reaching excitedly for a pen or keyboard because I’m overwhelmed with ideas and thoughts, I must conjure up the energy to even open the notes app on my phone. My brain is a mailbox full to the brim, thoughts slipping out from the sides. Stressors mostly, fears, worries, disbelief, doubt, and a whole lot of nothing which spreads like the common cold and ironically takes up more space than any other thing in there.

I sit at my desk these days with a frustrated hand touching the place where a needle permanently etched my body with the crest of a writer. Unmistakably symbolic of who I am, now fearful it’s who I was.

I’m working on convincing myself it’s a simple case of writer’s block. But painfully aware of all the writers who die from that same affliction. This world is not curated for those of us who simply want to make something. It’s simple enough until you grow up, and then survival is impossible without severing the veins of creation. Succumb to reality, errands, paperwork, a career - consumer consumed by consumption. 

I am an artist borne with a scar of desire, melodrama, an eye for the poetic, and an overwhelming amount of sadness. I am an artist of words. My creations do not come easily anymore, and when they do, they are often jumbled and flawed. But they are mine.