My creativity comes from a place of brutal honesty. But what happens when I don’t want to open myself up to you? I stop writing.
I’m angry about everything. I didn’t want to write about it but as a creative, that’s all I know.
So here I am.
My creativity comes from a place of brutal honesty. But what happens when I don’t want to open myself up to you? I stop writing. Because what else is there to talk about? Nothing else I write about flows as effortlessly as me talking about the inadequacies of former and current life.
I can’t write about happy. I can’t write optimism. I write from places of pain because that’s my coping mechanism. And even when I write about the mundane, I always feel this need to talk about wax poetic about a tough time in my life. Because, sometimes, I only find value in the darkest places of my story.
People respond to tragedy. It’s hard to tell a happy story when a lot of people are not that. And reading about pain sometimes is our way of finding empathy in a world that portrays itself to be heartless. You just want for someone to know how you feel. So when you write about trauma, it’s a way of reaching out to someone in hopes that they can just understand. Because understanding is sometimes all that you need.
For me, I don’t write about my trauma for attention. I write about my hurt because I grew up as a person unable to articulate my problems. I lived in a house where there was fear tied to asking for help.
See? I just did it again. I went into this tangent about past hurt to help you understand why I do what I do. When really this is about why I can’t be creative when I’m feeling down. I didn’t write for two days because I wanted to punch a wall. I didn’t write for two days because I was brimming with anger and tyranny. I didn’t write for two days because I was full of hate and resentment. I hated the sight of people. I rather sleep than deal.
And again, another tangent.
I don’t know if I can ever break this cycle.