On the turning away...

It doesn't matter what I do, my creative drive is gone. This has become a daily struggle for me and it is driving me completely insane. I hate it and it depresses me. Nothing inspires me anymore and this is wrong. I've read numerous books on writing and authors instruct that inspiration isn't necessary for writing or for creating any kind of art; but I think it has to be necessary. Inspiration equals passion and if there is no passion there is no art. Music doesn't inspire me anymore and my day to day life is so mundane that it drains my soul and makes my heart void. I don't have any dreams and as cliche as this sounds, it feels like my soul is dying. It's the normal things we get caught up in, work, money, trying to pay bills, trying to figure out what the hell one is going to do with their life, self doubt, self censorship, things that hold you back, procrastination, the television, the news, social life, family, and I feel like my aspirations have all but disappeared. My brain needs stimulation and ideas; it needs something that isn't there anymore. I want to be surrounded by creative people, I want to feel alive again I want whatever this is that's stifling me to be washed away so I can find again what is living underneath, something that was buried once, something that I tried to kill but now realize I so desperately need back. These are lyrics from a Vangelis song called So Long Ago, So Clear and the song moves me intensely but it doesn't move me to write, it just moves me to be nostalgic and what good does nostalgia do me?

Once, we did run
How we chased a million stars
and touched as only one can

Once, we did play
How the past delivered you
Amidst our youth we'd dream away, away

As if I knew the words I'm sure you'll hear
Of how we met as you recall so clear

Once, we did love
Long ago how did I forget
Holding you so closely Look, how I move
Chance would have me glance at you
To know how you move me, me

All barriers fall around us as we hear
Of memories known and matters so long ago, so clear

Once, we did run
How we chased a million stars
And touched as only one can


I often find myself saying, I don't know what to do. And I don't. I don't know to do. I can remember growing up how the smallest things fascinated me and how the world felt so much bigger than me but the older I get the less fascinated I am by it and the smaller it seems. I don't want to be familiar with the world that is out there but with the world that is in me. But the life I have led over the past few years has taught me that I must live in the world that is out there, I need to be familiar with politics, I need to have financial matters under control, I need to keep my family close to me, I need to work hard and own things and I need to socialize and all of these things I feel like I did with little or no effort at one time. But I look back and think, maybe I was doing something wrong then, maybe I wasn't working as hard as I should have been and maybe I didn't have enough experience to know what I was doing but it didn't feel like anything was wrong. And now, that things are so different, it feels like something is terribly wrong. I can never get caught up on the things I need to get caught up on and I had a realization that I never will because these are things that need constant and thourough maintenance and therefore I forget to maintain the things I truly to need to be happy. Where did I go wrong? Was I ever going right? Is the damage reperable? Or have I done any damage at all? Or have I even done anything that could be damaged? You would think that I should have the answers to these questions, that I should be mature enough to understand who I am and what I need to do but in all honesty, I don't. And that scares me to death. I don't like being frightened. I would prefer to dream and create and relate things to the world that is out there to things that are in me. But I have also discovered that to do this I must understand both worlds but both worlds don't like co-mingling if you know what I mean. One doesn't like the other being around and they are fighting a ferocious battle at this very moment and I am afraid that the one I dislike will win. My self control is non-existent and what I find of it is self defeating. I can't stand any criticism for living in the world out there but I can take all kinds of criticism for my inner world, for my writing, for my dreaming, for things that give me peace of mind. I am imprisoned behind some very strong walls and I need to break them down but I don't know how. I want to question things and I want to see things in a different light than how everyone else sees them. I don't want to conform. I don't want to work hard to fit societal norms. At first this seemed like something that went hand and hand with teen angst and college confusion but it has stuck with me. It is a sense of being different and I appreciate being different. I don't like ignoring that fact in myself. And I have been ignoring it.

I suppose the journey continues...

This week marks the 20th Anniversary of the Pink Floyd album, Momentary Lapse of Reason and here the lyrics from one of my favorites songs on that album:

Sorrow

The sweet smell of a great sorrow lies over the land
plumes of smoke rise and merge into the leaden sky:
A man lies and dreams of green fields and rivers
But awakes to a morning with no reason for waking

He's haunted by the memory of a lost paradise
In his youth or a dream, he can't be precise
He's chained forever to a world that's departed
It's not enough, it's not enough

His blood has frozen and curdled with fright
His knees have trembled and given way in the night
His hand has weakened at the moment of truth
His step has faltered

one world, one soul
Time pass, the river roll

And he talks to the river of lost love and dedication
And silent replies that swirl invitation
Flow dark and troubled to an oily sea
A grim intimation of what is to be

There's an unceasing wind that blows through this night
And there's dust in my eyes, that blinds my sight
And silence that speaks so much louder than words,
of promises broken