I woke up this morning with every intention of crawling back into bed and forgetting what consciousness ever felt like. Car lights from outside crawled across my frosted glass window and I thought, how can it still be so dark outside?
It was 5:30 A.M. and I didn't have to be up until 7. I cursed my mind for causing the stir, and couldn't fathom going back to sleep, so I sat up in bed, feeling the weight of every obligation that has fallen on my shoulders in the past few months.
These days, the words aren't coming as easily, and each thought, every burst of energy is going toward auxiliary functions, like breathing and walking. This is what the first humans must have felt like when they first hit earth: firing on all cylinders in order to do such simple things.
Exhaustion is the number one enemy of productivity, and still I press forward, feeling as if nothing I do is ever enough. I can't seem to figure out if I'm in the right place at the right time or not. Some days I feel stellar, and others I feel like I'm being stepped on by God's mighty boot, being jettisoned deeper and deeper into the ground by my own mused melancholy.
I guess, being an artist, you can't help but be tortured right? It's been studied, people who "think too much" end up being the most depressed, because their thoughts encompass almost everything. It's hard to move and live day to day when your head is so far in the future that your body has already given out, and you're on your death bed.
I feel like I've been living 20 years ahead of myself. I am never able to enjoy the moment. I am never able to give myself any credit. I am already in the ground as far as my brain is concerned. These thoughts, this person I have become is racing against time each moment they are conscious.
This is why I love sleep, because the lights turn off and the party is over. I can rest. Getting there, is another story.
I tried to sit down and write a song last night, but just the thought of that entire process made me so anxious that I had to walk away from it. That has never happened before. It scared me a bit. Like something was holding me back. I have to figure this out.
I used to think writing a song, or writing things down could solve all of my problems, like magically once the words hit the page, I would be a new person. Sometimes it works, sometimes it makes me feel worse, but I guess it's all a form of therapy.
Owning up to this emptiness will enable me to move forward right?
This is what we have to believe in order to move on. In order to self-improve. It's like a cleansing of the thoughts. Now that they are on the page, they don't have to own my consciousness.
Using writing as a means of personal excavation can be exhausting, dangerous and completely insane, but I swear by it. There is some truth to creating a reality in your head that doesn't necessarily match up with what's really going on.
I have to admit there is something fearless about all of this. All the eyes and what not. There is a freak show element, though, and where the eyes and people gawk and stare, there can be real truth.