“To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.”-Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse
I'm struggling against my own creativity.
Every day, it is the thought,
"Today, I need to get my shit together."
"Today, I need to write something. Play something."
And, every day, it is the feeling,
"I'm so tired."
"I'm so sad."
"I'm so lonely."
I'm very inspired.
And very uninspired.
I'm building a collection.
The collection changes from day to day.
But I do not forget.
I do not slim down.
I do not erase.
It is a library of thoughts.
Of regrets and empty experiences.
Things that inspired individuals in the past
To write words that became great.
Words that held their meanings through the years.
Words that feel like crumbling, permanent pillars
Of our cultural currency.
I think that part of my problem
Is that I believe the expression of these particular emotions and ideas
Is a cliche in itself.
It's been done before, over and over.
It's useless unless it's totally unique.
I don't want my mansion to look like everyone else's.
I want mine to be unique.
Because we all want to be unique.
Special, every one.
Rich and famous, every one.
It'd be a betrayal of myself
To attempt to publish or present
Anything less than something I can totally stand behind.
Irrational, perhaps, but respectable by nature.
I am my own motive. No one, nothing else.
And it is myself that I conceal.
And myself I will present.
Myself that will conquer.
Myself that will survive.