Sometimes I feel like my brain is split in two, with one side compelled to be perfect in the eyes of academia and society and the other side wholly enamoured with the creation of art. And mostly art is writing, and mostly that writing is songwriting. I journalled through my crisis recovery at the start of 2015 and then I stopped. I stopped because college got busy and, as always, I chose academia. I stopped writing songs, I stopped writing blogs, because I ran out of time and I ran out of words. I told myself when I had time the words would come back.
I have no words. I’m sitting at my piano. I smash the keys because the notes sound wrong or derivative or boring. And the words sound cliched or too simple or too complex. You sit at the piano and you convince yourself that because you have so many feelings, you the capabilities required to turn this overwhelming web of emotion into something productive. To explain what it feels like to wash dishes and feel like this could be done in a better way, in a better place. To somehow illustrate the small piece of you that has been chipped away and stolen. To process the equally forceful desires for isolation and engagement. I have so many thoughts and not a notion as to how I can resolve them.