Two Things.

The sweet loss of control can only be experienced when you allow yourself to drown in a sea of imaginative possibilities that only art offers.
I find myself relinquishing any creative power and becoming inspired.
My hands have not rested since yesterday. I write intermittently. I eat. I calm myself down, numb myself with routine necessities but my hands itch for creative release.
Strangely, I find inspiration in unexpected places. The fear is paralysing and irrational, and I seem to be able to suppress it for a while. When it takes over, the source is clear: jealousy is shrouded with ugliness and relentlessness.
The root of insecurity stems from unnecessary comparison. This leads nowhere, the feeling of inferiority is self implied. Yet, I covet the talents of others, especially where I thought I excelled.
I feel robbed, with no admirable talents of my own; just bits and pieces of everything instead of an impressive, definitive and admirable craft I can take pride in.
Is it writing?
Is it music?
Is it art?
Is it the dramas?
They all speak to me with lure.

My weakness is prevalent and spiteful.
I repeat old mistakes like a stuttering record. I only have myself to blame for willingly and lazily depreciating my own powers. I resort to the comfort of nothingness and anonymity. These are just thoughts few of many, and they will mean nothing weeks from now. These words will lose meaning and my lack of action will leave me barren.
I’m stuck in an ironic loop. I repeat the same rehearsed role, I don’t evolve and therefore I decay.
In shutting myself out I finally taste the bitterness of solitude.
I hide behind reality, but fiction has no secrets.
My deepest fears and desires are played out, in that ironic loop.
The loop. The loop. It repeats and overpowers.

This void that could only be filled by a perfect soul-mate is a distant dream. It’s conception by a realist is laughable… but the possibility exists, it hasn’t been disproved.

The music numbs the fears again. It whippers: the existence of a nirvana is only possible in a utopia, along with other discarded ideals. And to the land of broken dreams that live on, I’ll go.
I’ll curl up in the arms of a profound angel, shrouded with romantic mystery and poetic aestheticism.
My heaven will prosper in ruins.


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