I created shackles
My creativity is a beast with mind of its own. Its desperate to get something out, remind me of its existence every so often.
I love to write, but I always say that I hate loving to write. People usually don’t get it. I’m not sure I understand it myself either — I feel a daily need of participating in creative endeavors — but the day is long and energy low. I usually have very little of it left by the end of the day, but that’s when I usually write. I feel like absolute crap when I don’t pour something out, but I feel f*!king miserable from day to day life and even my creativity feels more like a strained, forced need to pump something, some content out in order to be…content with something that shares the brain with me.
This weird force of nature — sixth sense and what not, make of it what you will. I have very little time for it. Something that used to be so relaxing and calming and fun and amazing — lost its charm for me. I still love it, but its a strained relationship. We don’t see each other too often. It’s a landline based relationship. Sometimes my head is in another continent, when I need to stay rational — and other times, I can’t use my dreamy mind to escape Earth for a bit — like a dog trained to a whistle, I have moments of restlesness with no more instructions of the daily bread to follow.
I literally forgot how to relax. I got a little tired of the metaphors, so I used some more to explain the previous ones. This desperate voice needs to be heard by someone out there. Sometimes it actually has something to say. But no one listens to the street preacher lunatic.