Desperation seeking. Thirsty for approval. Starved for affection. It’s so intangibly tangible if that makes any sense. I can feel that pit in my stomach acting up again. It cries and screams incessantly. Why can’t I be happy it asks me? It doesn’t matter how much effort and time I give to someone I thought I cared about, they simply don’t care enough back. Was I a fool blinded by this abstract notion of love? Was it simply a fairy tale romance that I kept building up in my head? Was I not genuine? I’ve tried so hard to get in touch with myself and I keep thinking I’m improving for the better, but it just feels wrong. I change myself for approval. I’m so desperate for approval because of how much it drives my well-being. Have you ever thought about how your entire life depends on somebody else liking you? Romance is dependent on somebody else caring, somebody else telling you that you matter. The only difference between romance and obsession is that one of those involves both sides caring for one another. One consumes your entire well being and poisons your mind. Is it really poison though? I view it as a desperate cry for attention, a cry for love, a cry that quietly asks you to care. Please care for me as I care for you. I’ve given so much and just want even the tiniest most insignificantly significant ounce of affection to be given back. I love you so much with every ounce of my being and I just want to hold you in my arms and tell you that you matter so much to me. I want you to not be so hard on yourself and wish you nothing but the best. I want to tell you that you deserve all the wonderful things in life and that you are cherished and adored by someone. I want to tell you that you’re energy is best spent on people who care about you. I want to tell you that you matter, and I want you to tell me the same. I want you to tell me that you love me… but you won’t, and I know you won’t because life isn’t simple, and neither is this relationship. It hurts me. It hurts me to think about it, about us, about all the times you’ve opened up and poured your heart and soul to some stranger you’ve never met. What hurts the most is that I feel like you disappear without a trace, only to spend time with someone else. The last thing I want to be is needy, but I care about us, about you. I miss talking to you. It was one of the most simple joys in the world. It gave me purpose and a reason to get out of bed in the mornings. I know I’m not perfect and I’m sorry for making it awkward by telling you I love you so much. You have every reason to think I’m strange, and you have every right to not want to talk to me, and I’m really sorry that this message has been going on so long but I just wanted to wish you sweet dreams. I miss you and we should hang out sometime.
Tyranny, a word defined by its ability to inflict oppression among many. One wouldn’t normally associate such a word with something like the weather but I’m one of those rare individuals that do. To me, inclement weather is the most terrifying thing in the universe to me. Sure I may be horrified at the thought of rejection, the pain that comes with it and everything awful surrounding it, but have you ever felt the ground just cave in beneath you? Have you ever tangibly felt in your mind the agony that and torture that comes with losing your grip? Imagine the same ground turning into violent, piercing stalagmites that tear apart the very tendons that uphold the bounds of your body. Imagine those same stalagmites destroying every. Single. Inch. Of everything that you once upheld both ethically and emotionally? That’s what an earthquake does. At least that’s my limited perception of it at least. If our root chakra is any indication of how much I genuinely care about stability, then an earthquake is more than simply extreme weather. It’s an extreme shift in perspective, and as a rational and level-headed human being, I can say with confidence that this sort of extremism makes the hairs on the back of my neck quiver with uncertainty. I crave stability more than anything else in my life. Growing up and swapping homes so often has left me with a strong desire to create my own family and stable home that I never felt was there. And that’s not to say I wasn’t grateful, heavens no. They cared, god knows they cared. I just never felt grounded would be the right expression. The cracks had their awful way of showing when things seemed to get too rough. Verbal battles were akin to typhoons being bellowed from the deepest recesses of the lungs. Those same lungs that give life and that inhale precious oxygen can rupture and puncture at the slightest bit of pressure being put on them. What once was an organ that flowed peacefully and exuberantly can collapse with utmost certainty when push comes to shove. Typhoons Turn to Tornadoes and Tornadoes To Tyranny.
It’s happening again. That feeling when your mind becomes a complete maelstrom of thoughts and every sort of anxiety comes creeping up on you. It hurts you know? How the human mind can go from being your best friend to your worst enemy in the blink of an eye. One moment I’m laughing up a storm at the absurdity that is my daily life and the next I’m contemplating where my next meal will come from. Am I to blame for this negativity? Surely I must be, after all, we are in charge of our own destiny as the world wants us to believe. The notion that hard work inevitably pays off is a fallacy that we all buy into, and why not? It’s exactly the sort of idealism we need, no, crave to become whole and fulfilled. Our lives are so mundane and insignificant that we desperately seek meaning in things that are simply art for art’s sake. Sometimes it’s not enough for something to simply be aesthetically pleasing, no it NEEDS to provide MEANING. Why is that? Is there some sort of void in our lives that only art can fix? Is there some problem that can only be solved by trying to project ourself into someone else’s work? Is it a cry for help, or simply an egotistical way of thinking that has poisoned our brain? I’d argue it’s a little bit of side A and side B. Try as we might it can be impossible to relate to someone specifically for one reason alone, we can’t hear their thoughts. Why is this a problem you might ask? Well simply put because language is an approximate. You can only ever say an approximation of what you truly want to tell someone. Part of it is inherently an issue with language itself, the other half being that as creatures trained by society we aren’t allowed to. The status quo and shame culture both play a part in that. Rejection, betrayal and all the other wonderful things that come with being genuine and honest are all very real fears for many people, myself included. For most people, they resort to using art as a means of expressing themselves and I feel that is the most genuine way of doing it. Art is a reflection of the artist’s manner of expressing themselves into the world. Let me emphasize the notion of “self” as well. This is the artists chance to tell the world how they really feel, whether it be happy, sad, angry or some combination of a myriad of emotions. First and foremost the artist is the one who is putting their heart and brain on paper or canvas or whatever have you. For them it can be therapy, for others, it can be a way of projecting themselves into someone elses work. To me I find the latter selfish. Why you may ask? Well think about it in the most simple terms, Artists are both creators and expressors of the summation of their lives. They are the ones who have to deal with the consequences and the judgment from the rest of the world. They are the ones who risk their entire well being, physically and emotionally just to make ends meet in a world full of constant competition. They are the ones who willingly choose to suffer and be poor in an effort to try and make themselves feel better, with hopes of some other human being giving a damn about their work so that they can have a roof above their heads and food in their bellies. They are the ones who realize that their very existence and livelihood depends on others, and they are the ones who are scared to death at the notion of knowing that they could die alone and unloved.
Consumers, on the other hand, disgust me if only for one reason alone, they only take rather than giving back that same creative energy into the world. Consumers are the ones who have excess and don’t know when to quit. They keep feeding and leeching off of the creators who pour their heart and soul into their work. Consumers and passersby aren’t all that different. They find one thing that looks interesting, mindlessly eat it or glance at it and then move onto the next. They give effort to those who are unworthy and ill-fitting of material wealth and it sickens me. I’m no paragon of good will, far from it but I’m someone who has had it all and then lost it. I’ve lost it for so many years now and can’t imagine going back to it. It didn’t make me happy. Well, it did at some point but after a while, it stopped. I’d be lying if I said material goods don’t make me happy but am I really to blame when our culture is constantly shouting that at us? Starving artists are real, and whether they are starving because their work isn’t deemed worthy in the public eye or simply because those who don’t deserve it are more recognized is beyond me. Let me make this clear, I am NOT a misanthrope by nature, far from it. I firmly believe in all the great things humanity is capable of in all of it’s forms. It just baffles me how disgusting things can be when it comes to those who are in need aren’t receiving the help that they deserve, while someone who is much better off is laughing about it in their fancy house.
If there’s anything to be said from all my rambling it’s that there is one conclusion I have reached. I’ve come to terms that I am suffering both physically and mentally both as a person and as an artist. To some degree, I am okay with that. I chose this path willingly, hell I even devoted 4 years explicitly for it. 4 arduous years with nothing to show for it but a piece of paper that says “ Congratulations for wasting your life for extrinsic rewards. Now rot at home because we didn’t prepare you for the real world”. I am okay with it for one reason alone because if my suffering can provide entertainment and can make a positive difference for at least one human being then it was all worth it.
Have you ever felt alone? Like really truly alone? I’m talking about the kind of isolation that every single ounce of your body feels. You see when my heart expands and contracts, it physically and emotionally hurts me. It tells me “stop” even when my mind is fighting against me. It knows I’m struggling but it doesn’t stop beating. When I try to talk to it, all of my words spew out as a poisonous gas, further choking me. I try to put on that happy facade but I can’t communicate it effectively which leads me to believe there’s something inherently wrong with ME as a person. I can scream and shout all within my mind but I can’t feel any reprieve because if I even so much as whisper, I know I will be executed by the vile creature outside my box. It kills me, every single day to be stuck in this situation. No hope of being loved, no hope of being recognized, no hope of sustaining myself, only a void within my own mind. And what a void it is. I try to think of positive things but they always have some manner of turning into something dark to hurt me. I’ve come to terms that maybe some people are simply destined to be unhappy and miserable all by themselves without ever having learned of what passion truly means. This isn’t simply limited by passion between people. I mean the kind of passion that one feels when truly expressing themselves within their work. The kind of passion that says “I will write, or film or create whatever I want without a care in the world” even if it stirs opinions for being controversial. The kind of passion that allows the self to not have to worry about worldly desires because the passion alone is enough to keep them alive. The kind of passion that inspires someone to wake up every morning with a smile on their face to better themselves. For me, this does happen, but not as much as I want, no, NEED it to happen. I need to force passion into my life and I know better than anyone that nothing good can come out of something being forced. If I need something as much as this shouldn’t it come naturally? Is there not some sort of elixir or panacea to be found to cure my ailment? Well there is but I think it’s a hoax. The kind of elixir that the public wants you to believe is real. Well, I say they’re all wrong, that elixir doesn’t cure the root of the disease, only the symptoms. If the host is still corrupted then removing the strains of the virus won’t solve anything. Cough It’s getting harder and harder to breathe these days with all the chronic pain in my body. My foot which causes me agony every night, my spine which doesn’t curve the way most people do, and my scar which reminds me that even the most innocent of people can still very much hurt you. I hate it all. Why is it so much to have some consistency and stability in this world? Why can’t I be recognized? Why has the one constant in my life always been… pain?