I remember the fire, the fuel and the willingness to scribe down the epics. I remember the heat that tempered, the hate that soothed and the “I NEED TO GET THIS OFF MY CHEST BEFORE I KILL SOMEONE!”(s).
Where did my greatness go? It and I, cut seemingly from the same cloth, used to dwell in this same space, both occupying this very moment in time. Did I lose it? My gusto? My mind? Did I ever have it in the first place? I think I can still remember…
When I was younger I enjoyed art in its entirety. My inability to focus on one thing for extended periods, coupled with my switch-like ability to become bored with a mental or emotional thread in an instant, meant I needed many outlets with which to express and assess myself. Acrylic painting, spray painting, poetry, origami, daydreaming, that time I ruined an entire classroom’s desks with nothing more than a ballpoint pen and flashing hot rage – the world was my outlet. “Wayne’s World” was a colourful place. Demented, perhaps, but colourful.
And now I feel as though I am just blue. Not “blue” as in “to feel sad” – blue like the colour of the bottomless ocean I drown in right before I wake up out of breath, overexerted by the weight of the nothingness I am. Blue like a palette with only one colour: ocean-fucking-blue.
I fear for my art and my sanity. It feels as though a lifetime of introspection and (occasionally) healthy dealings with my demons has left me with no more stories to tell. I feel like that up-and-coming rapper who drives an Escalade at the shoot, but drives home in a Hyundai.
At least the music is good.