I just revisited a post that I wrote about two years ago. I’m oddly entranced with how I used to write, and noticed the evolution that I had even in that short snippit of words mumbled and jumbled.
I also had the moment where I was a tad disappointed in myself. How is it that a creative piece that I wrote as a freshman vastly surpasses what I am producing now? What happened? Where did that creativity and innovation that overwhelmed my writing as a recently turned 15 year old go? Why isn’t my 16-going-on-17 writing as deep and lyrical? Where did my spark and joy of language and playing with words hide in my mind.
I want you to come back creativity. I miss you.
I will let you know, trying to respark a spark is far harder that maintaining it; and believe me trying to maintain a spark is far harder when you, yourself keeps blowing at the hot surfaces – blowing hot breath on anything that twinkles because you are scared of starting a fire.
My fear has definitely grown. My insecurities less overwhelming but less manageable. That one rock that kept me strong has been replaced by a wind that comes in waves but only for a week or so before disappearing into the form of a text or a call. My rock used to be intelligence, now it is people.
Maybe not entirely, I’m not in the head of my 2 year younger body. I think my soul is darker that it was a few years ago.
I used to write to play with ideas, to try and focus the insane ideas that my brain spat out in hope of creating something digestiable. Mostly digestiable for myself, so I could go back in two years and spark a long timid flame inside of myself.
It has been the curse of me but also my driving force until I realized that I wasn’t going to be perfect and I never will be.
I have a habit, a significant trait of my addiction, to compare myself to others. It’s a tracking method, designed help keep pace with your “perfect” peers. But as a year has passed since I felt above, that comparison has been my demise. I compare myself to others, even though I know that we have different strengths, but see how their weaknesses are far superior to my strengths and then I cry and scream and throw my shoes at the wall. Of course, after this I compose myself, throw on a persona, drink a coffee, wash my face, and return with a hilarious one-liner that makes me inflate a bit inside when people laugh.
It’s called coping.