i used to have a creative heart. it’s beaten down, and tired. at the age of 17. i’ve given up before i started, and it’s made my heart coarse, sandpaper that drags across my inside, pumping poison into my veins. when they draw a needle in a syringe, the contents are green, and when i get a paper cut, the paper bleeds. all artists are starving. to be an artist is to be miserable. but it’s not because of the endeavor. it’s because of me.
this is my apology to the creative hearts. sincerely — from a creative mind.
i remember when i had a creative heart. i’ve been forbidden by an unknown source from deriving pleasure from creating. i want my creative heart back. i don’t miss the delusion, but i miss the passion. passion is overrated, i tell myself. passion is not the delusion.
i think creative hearts can only belong to good people. i’ve stolen an ounce of creativity for my own nefarious purposes, likely from someone who has a heart lacking a vial of artistic sensibility. but creative hearts only grow, adjust to their surroundings, are a container of fluids, a plastic bag morphing to fit their host. creative minds are serrated blades, only making an insult more harmful, a destruction more potent, making sure that the ant is fully dead before flicking it away.
to anyone i’ve hurt; here is my apology. my apology to the creative hearts. i’m so painfully, destructively, self-pityingly jealous that it hurts my empty heart, my empty body, my empty eyes and empty soul. my brain runs the show, and the show is a disaster.
why do people do this to themselves? why do we make ourselves bad people? i see good people say bad things every single day, and it makes me question how good anyone is. everyone has the potential to be bad. and everyone acts on it sometimes. we’re young. we can’t be perfect. but we can fucking try. we can stop finding pleasure in boasting that we’ve given up on the one thing that made us happy. i can stop finding pleasure in coating my regret with intellectual superiority.
i’m not going to make it. i’m going to be alone, even with a gun to my head, and it will nto be my life flashing before my eyes, it will be one with substance. it will be one that meant something. it will be the life i wish i had.
and now i’m a fraud. i love what i don’t want and i want what i don’t love. and i don’t know what i love and i don’t know what to want and i judge and i judge and i judge like every goddamn person around me. but this is not an apology to myself. this is not an excuse. but this isn’t a tweet to save face. its an introspection. because if i am not to have a creative heart, the least i can do is convince my creative mind.
i wish i were smarter. i wish i were braver. i wish i were better. i wish i were nicer. i wish i were loved. i wish i had faith. i wish i wasn’t 17, in a bedroom i want to stay in forever, in a bed that held my tears, a pillow that held my dreams, a blanket that held my tired body after a long day of daydreaming, of reliving a life i’ll never live. a door that slammed shut every time i felt shame. a desk untouched, cluttered with opportunities that i’ll never accept. i wish i didn’t think that this was the end, and every day is closer to the end, and every decision leads to the end, and this is the end and i can never change and i can never fix it and i’m so scared i’m so scared everyday i wake up scared, i go to sleep scared, scared of what? scared of my future. a future already created and destroyed in the blink of an eye. a future put together at the age of fucking 17.
what scares me the most is not that my creative heart is barred in, taped up, with the lights out, and the bulldozer on its way. what scares me the most is that i’m not scared of it being destroyed. what scares me the most is that i can live without living the life i want. the complacency with being average, being a coward, of being delusional in all the wrong ways.
