original inspiration.

i find myself an inspiration to others, but yet so few things inspire me. the only time i feel like i can write is when i'm sad. or lonely. in this state of less-than-subtle ennui. i find myself nostalgic and pained, and then i begin to write.

the truth is.. i feel like my writing is a trade-off. i don't write unless i'm unhappy. either i'm happy, but unartistic, or unhappy, but a writer. where is my creativity? where has it gone? i want to be a writer, in lieu of my sadness.

whenever i read back on some of the things i've written, i'm overwhelmed with how raw it is. others probably miss that rawness, because they don't necessarily see the personal connections i've made, but i surprise myself with how honest i allow myself to be. i'm not talented by any means, but i sure do feel. a lot.

i want to curl up in a corner right now. i've always had these ideas of sitting in my one bedroom apartment, with a typewriter, stationed on this messy awful big wooden desk. i'd be armed with a steaming cup of coffee, except i would never say "cup" - only "mug" because, mug sounds more artistic. great works of literature would be scattered around me, keeping me company as i worked. and i would write.

i would gaze out my apartment window into the busy city (probably new york or boston or chicago or seattle.. some wildly amazing place) and i would feel the energy of the pavement, of the buildings, of the life around me. i would draw on the beauty of all those millions of bodies, faces, heartbeats in one place. and i would write.

most likely, i would be dressed in an oversized sweater, probably cream-colored or gray. of course, i would wear a scarf because i, like all starving artists, would be broke and have no heat. i'd be sitting cross-legged in my chair, hair curly and wild and unkempt as usual. i'd probably be wearing those gloves with the missing fingers, so i could keep type-type-typing away. i'd have papers everywhere. a pencil set between my incisors. and i would write.

one day, i'd like to be this person. but for now, i'm a ghost of that. a slave to a system that is weighing me down. a shell of that beautiful vision. my words, for now, are so muffled that i can't even hear myself anymore. where is my voice? i think i hear it asking, asking questions like: can i ever be an artist? is that even in me? where did my soul go? who am i? i find myself straining, straining to hear.. so i sit down, here, in my one bedroom apartment (the one that looks nothing like my dream and has no desk or typewriter.. but there is coffee, so i think it's okay), and get ready to listen. i turn up the volume.

and i write.