#my creativity is still in shambles but at least i can sketch a bit more regularly

[verved]

Good news! I'm slowly unlocking the ability to draw again. Unfortunately I can't draw any of the things I want to yet bc all of that is Too Much Effort so I just keep drawing xenaut as some weird reptilian creature over and over bc my go to when I'm art blocked is dragon monster shit. I don't want to be drawing this though. I wanna do landscapes and design new characters and do fanart and stuff but my brain said no so I can't.

[moon-face-prince]

Today. 20th of August, 2017.

I am unbelievably, excruciatingly miserable today. I feel all the essence of my self has come undone like yarn pulled off the knitting needle and no matter what attempts are to be made, I shall never be quite the same again. Never as held together at least. 

What a shambles the whole fucking year has been since last summer. Adventure was lost long ago, left on the table seat of a train somewhere, like all the books I began and never finished.

My desire for the future has warped from a dreamy comfort to a terrifying on pour of anxiety and endless lists- angry faces sketched across the whole damn thing.

The love I once knew, creativity herself, is now a stranger to me. She no longer will hold me close when the rest of the world is falling apart- she laughs at my inability to put pencil to paper and my failings to create myself a new reality. She does not seem to care we have grown distant. Once, she was my only solace. Now, even she does not care to let me in the door. And, I find myself asking myself too often, who am I without her?

The events of this year have been a nightmare brought to life. There is no hint of exaggeration in my words. I lost so much and have found nothing that has filled that empty space.

I lost the words my best friend gave me. I no longer will be able to hear her voice down the phone or read her words over and over. I miss her more and more in each passing hour and feel like the comfort she gave me has never been more needed than now. I know she still lives on this earth and her heart is the same. But to know I will never hear her voice again leaves me angry at all the voices around me that can speak. Her voice, her laugh, her joy only brought me peace. The voices that now surround me too often bring me pain.

I lost the control I had on my mind, lost the ability to shut off intrusive thoughts, to scream back at the internal monologue that continues to sabotage. I lost what felt like my dignity- legs up in the air as a stranger rooted about my insides at countless doctors appointments and lost my innocence as I dealt with a potential reality no child should have to unwillingly face. 

I lost my curiosity. I am yet to finish a book for me. I am yet to feel the passion that once burned through my veins- I have not felt excitement in months. I have misplaced my hunger for stories, for slickly layered sentences and spells cast by poets.

I truly feel like there has been a burglary. Overnight, without a sound, they crept in and took everything I had. They cleared out every draw and took every valuable item I loved. God, they even took my childhood. They left me with nothing other than empty, other than lost, other than a few picture-less frames. I used to be stuffed to the brim. Ask me about myself and I would run my fingers along my bookshelves and pick out a story, rummage through my draws to find a painting, a poem. I could show you a smiling photograph without crying about the unreachable past. 

I have tried desperately to fill myself up again. I have bought myself cheap furniture for my insides, tried to cover up the marks of the breaking and entering by painting over the broken bits. I have done a poor job of recovering myself.

But time is moving too fast. Too fast for me to carefully reconstruct myself, too fast for me to thoughtfully pick out my new interior. I’m cold and practical now- or at least trying to be. Coloured walls, funny books and happy memories suddenly have no place here anymore and I am trying to figure out where I went wrong. Did I not lock the door properly? Everyone else seems pretty good at keeping themselves protected. Did I do this myself? I can’t even remember them arriving, let alone taking so much of me. 

I’ve lost something or maybe something has been stolen. Either way, it feels like the world is not giving me a chance to go looking for it again. The world does not care. The world tells me get on with it. You are still standing, they didn’t take the house too. Just the insides. They rummaged around and took all that they could but you are still here. I try to listen as best I can. Try to believe. 

But I stopped reading stories a long time ago.