I don’t always get to pick what I work on. Sometimes, I merely must.
Sometimes, I want more than anything to do just one thing.
But I do something else—entirely.
It’s not a misdirected obsession, merely an opportunity to follow my inner muse wherever it may lead.
Sure, today I wanted to work on an essay about the importance of writing by hand. The scientific background attached to a higher plain of thought resulting from a journal.
I’ve been researching it for months.
But my words are hard to come by these days, save for the occasional misread poem or random short chapter.
I wouldn’t call it writer’s block, so much as a motivational lull.
Words are so much easier to misread than art.
Art is open.
It was meant to be misunderstood, made personal in message, kept individual by the souls that witness it.
When words fail, the simplest truth is found in a more direct emotional response.
I started a new piece tonight, a new process to fall into and be swept away by. The second in a series focused on the roots of human emotion.
More specifically, mine own.
This has been the primary subject of my therapy recently, both in a licensed professional’s office, and in my own head and heart as I create songs, words and art.
But words have failed me as of late.
I am fortunate to have so many outlets—so many options to express myself.
Through eloquence, through a messy rage, through melancholy, I can look deeply into my own dark soul and search.
My mind is mine. My mind is mined.
My mind is always on public display, to help avoid confusion of character.
Why look to the words of others, when it’s already there, waiting for you to see?
So until I find the words, the process continues, as do I.
But this is merely the beginning.