The hostility of writing

Throughout my repertoire of written work, I have always been drawn to poetic prose, a lyrical rhetoric derived from personal experiences and the emotions of the current moment, feeble attempts to turn my stream of consciousness ramblings into a digestible medium. I don’t believe that I have an intended audience; if anything, all my words are meant for myself, trying to conceptualize complex feelings I struggle to process, and along the way, I have found people who resonate with the things I say, people who also find comfort in finding the accurate terms to try and justly describe the abstract concerns and moments in life. 

I have become lost with my writing, which, mind you, is an incomparable frustration. Take a creative hobby, any passion of yours, a pastime that you always look forward to, and dull its shine. Imagine that it’s become rough around the edges, fraying at the ends, and emitting some sort of rotten odor. And it’s not that you don’t want to lose your ambition for it; it’s quite the opposite. I am a prisoner of creative block. I have found myself sitting at my desk, a blank page open on my computer, and yet I can not seem to find the words for anything. It’s laughable because I always seem to think I have too much to say, that I open my mouth too much in social gatherings, and that I always speak for one or two minutes more than necessary, yet when I try to bring pen to paper, the ink dies and my throat hurts.

My brain knows creativity, but only within the confines that I have built for myself. It’s like I have placed this ebbing, flowing bubble of passion within a metal cage, and sometimes this matter is allowed to drift outside the bars, but never far enough, and the space between is never wide enough to allow it to escape. I have self-pigeonholed myself into a niche of poetic composition, only deviating from this style of composition a handful of times. And it’s so incredibly, abundantly ridiculous. There is no reason I can’t write about other subjects. As seen in the past, I have much to say about books and films and music and criticisms on what’s trending and what’s not. But for some reason, it’s as if I can’t find any value in my work if it doesn’t exist on the foundation of poetry. 

And yet, along the same lines, it has been so long since I have written any poetry. I do not remember the last time I tapped into the potential that exists there in my mind; it has dried up, become stale and flaky, and the more time that passes, the more I doubt my ability to resurrect it. I want to take this part of me, this strict, unrelenting side of my personality, and shake it with great force. I want to knock loose whatever part of my DNA that does not allow me to diverge from the schedules I make for myself and the expectations I place over my head. I keep searching for the gun that is holding me hostage; you idiot! Look down, the gun is in your own hands. 

Another reason I don’t trust myself to diversify my writing is that my self-doubt is overwhelming. I try to write about my favorite books, but everything I want to say has already been said. Every opinion I have feels derivative of something already written, and nothing I want to express can be as well articulated as what already exists. I feel like a fraud. Every critical thought I have is influenced by other people, my lexicon is a product of everything I consume. Nothing I do feels original; everything that comes out of me is secondary to the Hemingway and Poes of history. What is there that I could say that would offer any additional value to what Sylvia Plath and Dostoevsky have already outlined? I am stuck at a crossroads.

I know I will figure it out eventually, but it’s this period of ambiguity that frightens me. I am afraid that if I stop writing now, I will never find it again. I have built this momentum for over a year, the longest I have ever pursued a passion on my own accord, and to admit defeat now feels like I would negate all the progress I have made. Does anyone who builds a living off of creativity feel deserving of the success they have accrued? Does any creative mind ever feel satisfied and content in what they have wrought? I have only felt this gratification in fleeting moments, never long enough to put the pen down with finality. I do not know where to go; I do not know where to put all these words.

As for now, I will continue spewing bullshit onto the Internet, hoping that someone connects with the string of words I clumsily pair together. I know that the light at the end of the tunnel does not exist without the darkness of struggle, without hardship, but my God, I despise the withering of my abilities. I miss when my grass was green and the trees in the front yard were ripe with lemons. The branches hang limp now; what was once lush is now a deathlike pallor. I search for the watering can, I’m digging for the right soil. I’m excavating the depths of my mind, I’m ransacking every word I have written, sifting in between the spaces and letters to find an answer. 

I will continue searching; I refuse to let this hindrance wear away my passions. I will choke and cut myself until I bleed the words I am looking for.