Been feeling so apathetic lately. I go through really highs and lows - where I feel everything at once, like waves crashing over me.. blankets falling on top of my head one right after the other. Each one a different colour, a different burden, a familiar emotion. I've felt it all before, I've been here before. Or nothing at all.
I was at the beach the other day. I hardly ever go to the beach but I walked real close towards the shallow water and felt the waves crash against my knees. My best friend was telling me stories to my right but all I could hear were the waves crashing and swallowing the sand. I felt myself moving forward, getting sucked into the deeper end quicker than the sand beneath my feet. I felt her look at me and wander off, leaving me alone with my apathy. Then sometimes I think I'm really happy and content, too. But I know that's always a lie.
I write a novel. Three thousand edited words about nothing and nothing happens. I realise it's all my thoughts and I hate it. I have to work hard and show. Show that I can do this. To myself, I need to do it for me. I read somewhere in a book about creativity that when you partake in a creative process of any sort, you must go about doing it from action. Act upon it - just get it done. I wrote a story for a soldier not long ago. It was a story I've been meaning to write for a while, but kept putting it off. Then one night I came home and wrote it all in one go, and it was amazing. It was close to perfect. I showed him and a tear trickled down his cheek.
One thing that really gets me is when people don't remember as much as I do. Do you remember when I showed you those fragments of my art? Or that song? I'd ask them. They'd all shake their heads, each and every one of them. Like those conversations never happened. Like they had never read that fragment of my art I chose to share with them. Like they didn't compliment or criticise it at all. I remember everything. From the colour of peoples eyes, to the roots of their hair, to the way their faces seem to twitch, to the way their bodies move in motion, to the way they clear their throats when they're nervous and to the way they have strange little habits they can't break out of. I wish I didn't feel so much. Or see and hear so much, as a matter of fact. If only I could be ordinary and simple; asleep at three in the morning like the rest of the world. I'm tired - so, so tired, but it's never enough. No matter how much I write, how much thought I put into something.. I'm never satisfied. How could I show all these people waiting for the novel I'm writing? Waiting for the snippets, the perfect little ~poems~ and ~verses that will touch and break them. That will make them fall in love with my words.
What if they're just that - words?
What if they won't touch or stain you with sadness and glory.
What if they're supposed to be disposable and forgettable.
But what would I know. I can't feel anything now. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow.
How superficial and relentless we are sometimes.
I hate it.
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