Writer’s block is a most unusual phenomenon. I’ve never attested to being the silkiest writer or the most articulate but I definitely believe I write with a certain character and most importantly, honesty. I think this is why sometimes I find myself cringing at what I write because it lacks the inherent honesty that makes it come to life. Without these two qualities, there is no true voice bringing the words to life. Without the words coming to life, there is no soul. With no soul, there is no point even writing in the first place.
This herein lays the essential issue I have been having with my creative expression of late. I have wanted to write about a myriad of things but I have not been able to because I am so heavily distracted by something particularly important. Something I have not felt for a rather long time and it is making me very uncomfortable for I forecast that it will simply lead to heartbreak, indignation and perhaps once more, indifference.
You see, this is the problem. I have conceded things before and simply accepted it and moved on. I am yet to truly grab onto something that I am totally immersed in, something that I care about more than I do the salt and the grain of the earth. It is in these life choices that I am not honest with myself, I am not the character that I believe myself to be, and I am not someone who has a point to exist. Thus, perhaps I am the one who is lingering in a state of personality block. The type of thing that you cannot break out of unless you really embrace what you are as you stand up and scream it to the clouds and ride that big old horse right to the barriers as you race to a victory in the Group One maiden stakes. The type of person who invites all of his friends over just to announce to them that I am not afraid of failing anymore and I am not willing to just BE anymore. ‘I am going to be me and not stare into the sky at night with this overwhelming fear pressing down on my chest’, I will tell them. They will probably all just nod and laugh and say that I have said these things before and that they believe me in a condescending, patronising sort of way. And that’s okay because words simply are not enough. Words can be beautiful, harsh, delicate, poetic, demonic, unholy, neutral, majestic, gnarly, radical, cute, abhorrent, tepid, supportive, hateful, marvelous, magnificent, horrible, commanding, empathetic and luscious but they are rarely whole enough to be utterly convincing in regard to turning a new leaf and becoming the person you can be decidedly proud of.
I have read a lot of beautiful things that reaffirm everything I believe in. Reading is the lifeblood of society because it teaches us how to survive, how to live, how to prosper and even how to die. I am not attempting to preach to the already converted here, with readers lapping up my grandiose expression of self-righteousness. I understand that great art can be found in mediums that are far from those that are, when assessing an inconceivably large timeframe, tradition forms. However, well-crafted sentences are like honey to a bee, a horny man to a delectably attractive woman and unpopular conservatives to a supposed high-level security threat. But as much as you can believe they can, words will never be able to be more than just words on a page without you taking it upon yourself to be more than just another essay on a teacher’s desk. This may all kind of sound nonsensical and you are most definitely right. I do not feel that I am flowing the way I used to because my brain is completely preoccupied and many of you can most likely take one guess as why it is so. I don’t even have to spell it out for you because it has been spelt out so many times before. You may not believe in it or you may have lost the faith in this special engrossing emotion but that is you and this is I. I, the man who tries his best to elucidate the moment he became more than just simply a boy. The boy who cannot accept that he has not truly reached manhood cerebrally despite the physiological advances that makes it appear that he has reached such a point in his life. To paraphrase, they say a man is not a man until he has loved another more than he loves himself.
I have yet to reach such a milestone. I have not loved someone so deeply that it has outgrown my love of myself. I think it is extremely difficult to love someone more than yourself when you are a twenty-something with a future that is clouded. Clouded not by lack of opportunity, but more so, pained self-reservation in attacking these opportunities. My creativity lapses are like those of any other human being. A lack of motivation mixed in with a lack of material that has been thrown into a pot of a lack of direction. Direction creates motivation therefore creating material. You can’t have one without the other. That just reads like a childhood skipping rope song. ‘Ya put ya left foot in, ya put ya left foot out, ya put ya left foot in and ya shake it all about. Ya do the hokey-pokey and ya turn around, that’s what it’s all about.’ Repeat, repeat and repeat until said children are exhausted.
You push through the soft goo of indecision and you’ll get to the hard candy of true realisation. Has opinion become a dirty word? Should we listen to a critic under the age of 30? Is writer’s block simply self-consciousness?
Are we born with the word ‘success’ or ‘failure’ stamped on our forehead? Why do people care so much about their reputation? Is there such a thing as a stupid question? Yes, no, yes, yes, because that’s what we are taught to do and an emphatic yes. See William, it isn’t that hard to answer your own questions. Will I ever love someone more than I love myself?
Well, now there is a question I cannot answer. We’ve been raised to be confused. Be assertive, not arrogant. Be brave, not stupid. Be your own person, but don’t forget about society. Be a man, but it’s okay to cry. Respect women, but how good is porn? Love freely, but trust no one. Question everything, but don’t annoy people with your indulgent point of view. Don’t sit on the fence, but maybe… I don’t know… maybe just quiet down when the big boys are talking. You learn something new everyday… but you might be forgetting something important.
I really don’t know clouds at all…