Sometimes I feel like I hate creative people, whenever I take the time to think about what I really appreciate when it comes to things that come from people – it’s always those with great talent in many different areas. Art, Music, Writings, Architecture, Craftwork – you name it. I’ve never felt like a very creative person, but I’ve felt like I’ve had a very active and colorful imagination. When I was a child I used to get in trouble all the time because I would be off staring out the window or into the corner of the room. Teachers thought I was bored or uninterested in learning. Some chalked it up to a lower IQ or ADHD / ADD… but they never really knew why. It’s because I was dreaming, of fantastic things. I would dream of space machines that could fly me away to incredible places in the cosmos. I would dream of places I’d seen in video games where I could be the champion of my destiny and save the day or someone I cared about. You see when I was young I didn’t have friends; I was socially awkward and mostly had only myself. So I took the time I had alone to think of what would be a life worth living.
In a way I guess all that time alone helped me hone my ability to clearly see details and stories play out in my mind. Once I got older and grew into being more sociable, I continued this trend but more so when I had alone time. It became a way for me to unwind after stressful days, and at times even help connect with some people who became my friends. But its lead me to a problem that’s plagued me ever since. I have all these images, scenes and people in my mind that I’ve created over the years... and I can’t get them out. I see them, hear them and watch them do amazing things and I want others to be able to see them too – but I just can’t seem to find a way to do it where it gives them the detail and justice they deserve.
I’ve tried playing the music I hear in my mind, but it never comes out right or well enough – I tried that for years. I tried drawing – I practiced for years and never was able to put pencil or pen to paper in a way where it looked even remotely what I saw in my mind. I tried writing and keep getting close but… I still fall into the same slump where it just doesn’t feel right. So I stop; and in my head they remain. It might sound cold when I say I feel like I hate creative people, but I mean that in a very envious way. I see people able to put words to stories, sounds to songs and visuals to paper or film that can so expertly express a concept or creative idea that I just can’t seem to match or even get close to.
Its lead me to this feeling that I’m incapable of releasing the creativity in my mind. It’s stuck there as long as it’s in my mind, I just don’t have the talent to let it out. Sometimes I feel like I get close to figuring something out, so I pursue a new outlet hoping that it will stick. One of the worst feelings I’ve come to know from this is that it never gains traction, or when I get something that I feel is up to public scrutiny – it feels stupid. That the idea, or the way I’ve conveyed it is stupid – so I remove it and stop.
So I’ve fallen back to what I seem to be good at – which is working and helping others. If I can’t be creative, then maybe I can at least help someone else be. For the last four years I thought this would be enough for me and that I could just get by with the little things that make me happy. But it’s not working anymore. Lately I’ve become frustrated to the point of depression because I can’t seem to find a creative outlet that satisfies me. I’m reaching out to almost anything available to me but nothing feels good enough, and if I stop trying I get this feeling of anxiousness. Almost as though I’m filling up inside and I need to get some of the pressure out. I feel stuck, in a loop of day in and day out. I get up, go to work, eat *sometimes*, come home – spend a few remaining hours with the one person who makes me feel special, and then sleep.
The worst part is that I can’t stop this cycle – because of all the student loan debt and bills I have, if I did stop for even two weeks my life would come crumbling down on me. I see stories of people giving up on modern life and going soul searching in other countries, or becoming a modern nomad. They talk about stories and records of humility and a reconnection with life that just seems to be a fairy tale to most people nowadays. I’ve dreamt about being one of these people, but I just can’t. The weight of my financial burdens are too strong, and even if I did just fuck it all and go anyway it would just fall onto my family, which would remove any happiness I could possibly get in return.
So here I am, at work, sitting in front of my computer writing this all down out of frustration in between taking calls. Most likely no one will read this and I’ll just end up deleting it all anyway. I just had to let some of this out, even if it’s to no one in particular. The optimist inside me won’t let go of the hope though, that one day I’ll figure this out and finally feel happiness inside that I’ve never reached before. So envious I will stay, frustrated I will be – but persistence shall endure… I’ve come too far and already stopped myself from ending it once; I won’t let this grow into a force that strong ever again.