Why?

I look around my room and I see notebooks. Notebooks full of material that was furiously and hastily written down in shaky black pen. Ideas for art. Projects for bands. Mechanical and engineering ideas. theoretical physics systems and an innumerable amount of other miscellaneous ideas that almost guaranteed never come to fruition. There are scrawled sketches everywhere, notebooks with references to other notebooks, subtext, crossed out lines, underlined, margin corrections, sketches of machines. Summations of dreams. The culmination of this work almost never sees the light of day because by the time I get ¾ of the way completed with something, a new enticing idea comes up and I’ll be knee deep in it. The panic that comes from sitting still is now an overpowering force; so much so that the mere thought of relaxing or not doing anything incites bouts of guilt and depression, even shame for not being competent enough to finish a project from the beginning. I’ve spent enough time in front of a meter and a spectrogram, reading levels and equalizing. I’ve spent enough time scribbling in a notebook phrases and philosophical ramblings that would be better suited in the garbage, as they inevitably end up taking up residence in it. I don’t know why it gets like this, though it’s a complicated brew of emotions, logical deductions, and irrational justification, a few key words seem to continuously re-appear and become increasingly prevalent; “Panic”, “guilt”, “exhaustion”, and “why”?

I find it progressively harder and harder to simply ‘relax’. Something happens in my brain upon entering a ‘relaxed’ state which incites feelings of said keywords: guilt, panic, exhaustion, ultimately ending in me uttering “why?” to myself as I find the nearest notebook with a free margin and begin scribbling some useless point or lyric. I’ve established myself as an artist, that in itself being something that made me feel happy. I’ve made some (as far as I’m concerned) beautiful, interesting pieces that to some degree, accurately represent my thinking and mindset, but unfortunately, that high of art is dwindling, once again. My days are spent producing music, lyrics, art, philosophy, Christ knows what else. I’ve spent many days designing new musical instruments, figuring out concept-bands. I’ve spent nights writing down how I can improve the design of the internal combustion motor, conceptualizing aether, breaking down relativistic physics in my head so I can perhaps catch a glimpse of some of the answers our universe has to offer. I’m not talking myself up, because I’m sure almost all of what I’ve conceptualized is wrong in its entirety. But it’s not about being right or wrong, it’s about me just…making things. Creating. I’ve come to realize that if I am not ‘creating’, I’m in a panic. I feel worthless, that my creation of music, art, lyrics, stories, machinery, or physics modeling is my way of justifying my existence. Without it, I’m sure I would be either institutionalized, or dead. My body tells me that the minute I stop writing, I’m worthless. Once I stop recording, I’m worthless. Once I stop hypothesizing, stop drawing, stop tabbing, I’m worthless.

With every passing day I find it harder to muster up the strength to create. It’s not that the well is low or empty, I’m just tired of going to it. The approach, the culmination, the execution, and all of these processes take exponentially more and more energy to perform with each passing success or failure. It’s not an issue of if, but an matter of when.

There’s a silence I’m not used to. In fact, it’s so alien, it’s terrifying. Not the silence of nature, nor is it the silence of isolation. It’s the silence in my head. I don’t hear it, but I feel it. Like a cold shroud indicating zero value. I don’t know what sort of product would satiate such a sinister reaction. Sleep is a nightmare. Being awake is not far off.

Why?

Visceral Creations

Kent, United States

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God damn it…

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