I’m not creative. I don’t even kid myself into thinking I am. If I were, I don’t think I’d be writing. Though I’d like to try my hand in different mediums, my broke ass is stuck with pen and pad—the truly privileged get the paintbrushes.

When I put down whatever I do on whatever I can, it’s usually something to do with me; consciously or not. When it isn’t, I usually find a value or two sometime after the story’s end. Thinking the way I do, it’s one of the only ways I can grow. It’s certainly selfish, but I hope it’s for unselfish ends.

Recently my highs and lows have been grating against each other like shitty brake pads against a busted rotor (I recently changed my brake pads for the first time!). One minute I’m a riot, the next I’m starting one. I can’t find my balance, can’t see the center, can’t see through the mist. I’m lost in emerging or escaping opinion, god…I feel like a mess. It’s not new, it’s been happening for about 2 years now—but things have certainly slipped away.

I suppose, at the end of it all, my opinions are an uncomfortable lode between “I don’t know” and “I don’t want to know”. Opinions in themselves, but filled with an escapism that is only otherwise visible in my perception of the afterlife; an amalgamation of every shrug and instance, blossoming or withering into some malleable opinion. Getting older blows.

Ah, to be young with such staunch and self-believably unwavering views—those were the days of roses. There wasn’t a focus on my beliefs because I knew them well, though I guess I didn’t. I was free to focus on being funny, or charming, or impulsive. No tomorrows, no time, just the time I was having. Now I’m so in-my-head I forget to turn it off, forget how narcissistic it is; every damn thing said or thought is excruciatingly and painstakingly evaluated until it becomes worthless, something else to shit-can. I forget silence ain’t for everybody, that I come off as standoffish when stuck in my head though my tail’s wagging. It’s just bad form.

I kid myself into thinking one day my mouth will open to expose the universe, that all this thinking and adjusting and re-evaluating will be worth the mountain of not-so-much I’ve been working so diligently on.

I’m not creative, but I could be. Not a talker–but I could be. Though I kid myself into believing that I am, I’m not much of a thinker either. I’m stripping myself of things, alright. Who needs a healthy, functioning life when I can get circular in my head until I’m straightened in a box? In the end, like my writing, I hope it’s all worth it; all this time. I’m certain my writing is for something more, the jury’s still out on my constant and constantly questioned thoughts. Maybe I could just pick out a goddamn flavor of iced coffee without temporarily losing myself to some of the most unimportant thoughts you’d ever think of diving into. Ah well, until next time. Hopefully on better tides, in blossom. Or at least talking while pretending to be.

All the best and thanks for reading,


Author: antbrov

Fiction | Magical Realism | Introspective Write > Edit > Hate > Learn > Write...

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