blushes

Here I am, enjoying way too many things on the plate. And I know, I just know, that if I move on to choose an actual dish I may never see them again, or in lesser form. I'm terrified of graduation and having to be a part of a literary community I may not feel a part of. I'm terrified of how predictable that sounds to me. I'm terrified of not being able to draw anymore. I'm afraid of it being lost. Due to this fear I have been drawing more, and more, and then my reality is skewed again. You see how nuts I am here?

I mean, what am I doing? What am I drawing out here? Are these plans for something? Why this urge to stop my existence just to do it. Why don't I stop to write a poem? Poetry has already become something more for me. Something so much less primal, embodying so much at once. But my art isn't something to be shaped and instructed through terminals. It dumps out of me like vomit. I imagine coloring my entire existence with it. I imagine changing my entire wardrobe to be a part of it. But writing? I still have never been able to branch them together. How does this work? Words and images are expressed differently, but there must be some similarities somewhere.

This realization irks me because it makes me wonder if I have lost all that is real about my poetry. What happened to it? Where did it go? Am I just discovering how words can be more malleable than anything else? This rings even more true when I'm in school for it. I'm constantly having to invent and reinvent the way I do things to work with who is grading my papers. If writing has turned into something else all together, such as my way out of something I don't want to be a part of, then it won't be my art at all. It's busy pleasing, and it's busy losing sight of what it really needs to say. I really do believe if it stops doing that, if I stop making it, and let go of the fear that I will be in my current state for the rest of my life... then maybe it will start to make sense again. The person who arises out of it is unlike the person that is expressed in anything else I do. I feel as if maybe I am channeling someone who isn't me, a lost ancestor, desperately needing to express herself. I don't feel as if she's a part of me, but she is nonetheless. She's rebellious in the wisest sense. She knows damn well none of this shit matters but knows how to tweak it to get her out, innocently enough.

I can't bother trying to explain or connect things in my life anymore. However I ended up here, admitting that the only thing that will get me to commit to pursuing anything professionally is the sole reason that I do not want to stay in Kansas City drunk as a bee in the cold forever. This person who comes out when I write must have wanted me here for whatever reason. Maybe it was meant to be. I feel quite out of control when I think of it. She's more misunderstood than not and I do not feel the need to make her understood. When I find myself sitting in my workshop class practically welling up with tears and irrational emotionalism, I am unsure of why. I have no idea why. Am I mourning the death of something? My psychological terrain is exploding everywhere. Why do I sit there feeling that way and then come home and feel like dumping my design all over the place instead of having anything to write about? These compulsions will have no explanation, ever. To keep battling with myself and commitment is beckoning a harsh resentment with myself for not pursuing something else.

I can place blame on a number of sources but I was just unlucky. The questions I am having to ask myself now have been bloomed late. I do know that, for whatever reason, I was repressed in a different way throughout my childhood for reasons that were out of my control. And by owning my art in my own home is my only sense of control over my own creative function. To commit in any way to a future based around that would mean giving up some of the power, which has already happened with my poetry. I start to use it for other things other than the original purpose. I lash out in anger when I am alone, like a child, and get drunk when I have commitments the next day because there is no sense in giving up more control. Sometimes I want to go back to my childhood and find the place where I gave it up. I know when, and how it felt. And when I tried relinquishing the world's expectations two years ago I was given the short end of the stick again. It seems as if maybe I was cursed somehow.

I'll never know. And now I'm losing track of my original point in writing this. Clearly, I have two people battling it out inside of me. One was damaged and the other has been damaged so many times that there is little that can relinquish her. But it doesn't matter. They're just fighting it out inside of me, unable to come to an agreement. That's just my life. And I am now tired.