I’m so tired. I’m laying in bed typing and I’m just exhausted. All I want to do is run away to a foggy northern island, wear Fair Isle sweaters, and drink coffee in the chilly morning with a furry little monster next to me while I sketch or paint. I’m tired of being so aware all the time of what’s going on in the news. Climate change terrifies me, I don’t care to hear anymore about ISIS, and I’m tired of waving my political flag at all times. Memes are boring, YouTube is disgustingly self indulgent, Netflix seems uninspired, and I’m too distracted to create.
Last week I disconnected from Facebook for 90 days. It was my attempt to recreate the magical summers from my childhood when I rode my bike to the library to research something for a story I was writing, oblivious to the world beyond my imagination. I miss being able to create my own world on a whim, to play around in that world, daydream, develop characters, run dialogue through my mind. Now I’m busy scrolling idly through my social media feeds, actively comparing myself to my friends, feeling worse and worse about myself, asking myself why I haven’t gotten off the computer to do some warm up sketches?
My sense of urgency comes from being 37 and finally picking That Thing I Want To Do. And 37 years of grief, religion, self policing, and depression hasn’t really helped me build the skills I need to do That Thing.
I don’t know why I’m writing this down. It’s a thought I was thinking while passing the time as my upstairs neighbor had a very busy and loud evening.
Today I worked on my comic, and I just felt…defeated. Like…this is The Thing but I’m not very good at it. Yet. I have ideas that I can’t execute, I have thoughts that I have a hard time expressing, and my story feels…quaint. And kind of safe. And that’s the last thing I want. Quaint and dangerous I’ll take, but not quaint and safe.
Now that the pulsating bass has (hopefully) ended for the night….I can barely keep my eyes open. But I’m letting my mind wander and dream.