It’s been months since I’ve written. Not just here, but anywhere. Falling into an adult routine of growing up has sucked the creativity out of my mind. That’s just an excuse though- I could go outside, I could recall past emotions, I could skip a few days of my medication. I could do anything just to write. So why don’t I? Perhaps it’s because I already have lines and lines of words tossed together, but they still don’t have a home. Perhaps I’m just lazy. Do you want to know the real answer though? It’s because I am my own worst critic. I believe that happens to all of us, especially if we identify as artists. We study the painters, the writers, the musicians before us and try to mimic them- this is the downfall. They paved the way without knowing that they would change the world. Or maybe they just took a lot of drugs. Probably both.
The downfall to writing (at least for me) is listening to other things as I’m writing. Even now, I’m listening to music (but that’s okay since these aren’t lyrics), but when I attempt to write for my own band, the same words that I just listened to spew across my page. I just wrote down lyrics of another band like a fifteen year old stuck in math class.
Maybe I’m scared that nobody will like them. I think I’m more scared that I won’t like them, because ten out of ten times, I don’t. Why does it matter if I like them though? Aren’t they expressing how I feel? My emotions, my thoughts.
I have big dreams, but the only thing standing in my way is…me.