A drawer? I hardly know her!

｡𖦹°꩜.ೃ࿔ 

—— People call me a creative. Gifted, much more imaginative than the average person.

While I agree that I’ve always been a daydreamer — or yet artistic for as long as I’ve known myself, it’s slipping away from me. The colors are draining from the rainbow I used to hold so much pride in.

I find myself unwilling to push myself to create. It is bright around me, I see many things I believe could inspire me to take hold of the pen again.

That’s the thing. It “could”. I see its potential, yet I don’t move a muscle.

I see my potential, yet the paper is still empty .

Even now — as I’m writing this — I struggle finding the words to properly articulate my fleeting hope in my ability to be as creative as I once was, pausing for prolonged periods of time every now and then. The feeling is there. The words are there. But there’s this infuriating knot inside of myself that restricts my vision from spilling out my fingertips.

—— Maybe it’s because I second-guess myself a lot to the point it’s unhealthy? To the point where I deliberately waste my own time abstaining myself from making a single move — to the point where it carved itself into my core and became an inherent part of myself, the given unconsented inability to efficiently express myself without pausing for extremely dumb amounts of time because I forget the simplest of words just from overthinking it.

To the point where I don’t speak because I fear I’ll mess it up.

To the point where I leave the paper pristine short of my indecisive abrasions because I fear I’ll mess it up too.

This is fucking annooyyingguhhh.

—— Maybe another reason is because I have this fundamental need to compare myself to everyone around me. Yes, yes, worldwide phenomenon . I’m as aware of it as much as I’m aware of how bullshit this all sounds, and how bullshit my reasoning is for not having the will to attempt lacing life into my creations again. The sad truth that someone I know — or will know — is always worlds above me, one way or another, has always wrung my neck of its shallow air. But trulyyy , how many people do you think has been captured by the unfortunate mindset of “That person is better than me, so why should I even try?”.

It’s hard finding meaning in creating again.

Every force is against me. Against us. Comparison, occupation, artificial intelligence — It’s like a thick, heavy, grey fog comes to blind me as if I had told it to come hither whenever I try to find color in creating once more.

I’m so, so tired

Still — it’s my problem to solve, my leg to break.

I know the solution, I always did, I just can’t find it in myself to execute anything anymore

Maybe the real color were the friends we made along the way. I don’t know man

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