I feel as if I have lost my ability to create. I'll look back at old works and remember the feelings and emotions I put into what I would make. I remember the feeling of being proud of what I had accomplished, astonished by the mere fact that said work was made by my very hands. The same hands that once were so restless and would claw at my scalp, itching to create, were able to make something so straightforward yet have enough of a twist and curve as to not stir from the point. When I look back at what I could create, I am stuck in awe of my work.
"I was able to make that?" I always question, knowing full well the answer. When I do not create, I feel a part of me is missing. I feel hollow and unsatisfied by my lack of doing, but I have nothing to create. My imagination is currently consumed by empty thoughts of black and grey - what pictures can u find amongst smoke and ash?- - Furthermore, I have no words to say. ... Really, what do I say? I am losing my ability to make and create. Something I found unique towards me because nobody could do it like me. Perhaps it's the stress, the restless nights, the lack of sleep, or internal fights. My hands ache to create something worth my while, and they claw at my scalp as my brain shouts at itself to "Think! Think of something!", but no thought is made...
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The World That Is My Mind
De TodoThis is a series of short drabbles bout things I experience and feel that could be relatable to others. Still not sure if these could be classified as stories or poems or whatever else you want to call them, so u as readers can decide for yourselves...
