Over the years, I have unleashed many of the beasts that torment me onto the pages of Vagabond. I think those that read this site will agree that those entries have been emotionally raw and terse at best and ugly and cuntish at worst. And some would agree that I've written less and less in at least a year's time.
I've tried to convince myself that writing is good because I know I cannot survive without words and expression. And when I sit down to write, I do nothing. I wonder if it's because I'm trying to be more respectful of those in my life that could be affected by what I express. Or is it because I truly having nothing unique to say.
I'm depressed. I'm punishing myself. I'm withholding what makes me happy. I haven't purged myself of all that emotional angst I've written about. Oh no. I've just expressed it in different ways. In oh so many ways. And the depression and anger and excitement that I once freely participated in from my teenage years until my early thirties have resigned themselves to apathy and silence.
Seriously, which is worse? The over the top outward vocalizations of a spirited person or the seemingly stoic coldness of said person?! Like the true bipolar that I seem to be (though I'm refusing to believe that i am anymore), I have no happy middle.
Apathy is worse. I think I live this way because I'm trying to not scare people away. My emotional side seems to have severed all my relationships so I try to compensate by expressing nothing. And I bet you're asking, "How's that working for you, Naomi?"
Shit! Does anyone have any tips on how to play nice with others?
As my birthday draws closer, I need to reexamine this latest approach...cause it ain't doin me no good! And my creative life is stagnant. That I can't handle.
