What I think most people might not realize is that quite often, I was writing to myself. If I was feeling heart broken, or depressed, I’d say the things I wish people would say to me. I think really good art is a map away from an emotion or a map to an emotion and that creating art, allows that emotion to leave the body of the artist, and so this was an incredibly healthy project for quite a while. I got a lot of stuff out of my system. Human material.

Eventually, I started needing to recreate the sadness and longing within myself that had first inspired me to write many of the entries, so I could write from that place again. It’s like being addicted to painkillers, so to justify to the doctor why you need them, you start hurting yourself to prove your point. I started spending my time tearing open old wounds just so I could write about what the blood looked like when it came out.

There’s this horrible equation that creative people can sometimes buy into, which is “No one else has felt what I’ve felt, therefor no one else can do what I do.” Which isn’t true. What you feel doesn’t make you creative. Who you are makes you creative.

I fell in love, consciously or unconsciously with a story about myself, like I was David Foster Wallace, or Hunter S. Thompson, or Hemmingway or Sylvia Plath, all of whom scratched the itch at the back of their head with a shotgun or an oven, or cleared the frog in their throat, finally, with a rope.

It took me a long time to realise that the only story about me that was true, was the one I was writing.

But it was hard.

I poured all my romantic and spiritual energy into it and if at any point in time you were in a relationship with me, you got the leftovers. Imagine for a second you’re going out with me, and every day, when I come home, you’re left with the question.

“If you’re so good at writing these things, how do I know what you say to me, is real?”

Or

“Who did you write about today?”

Or worse

“Were you writing about me today?”

It took a near complete emotional break down to see any of this. But I did. And I’m sorry to anyone I hurt along the way.

There’s no book you can write, no amount of twitter followers, no award you can win that will ultimately make you happy. You will only be happy when you start to focus on the simple daily experiences that make you happy. And that might mean letting go, of other things.

As a short epilogue, last year, I started over drawing and I came back to my memories to get some inspirations, times at the college, where I was happier, stronger and motivated. I want to pour together all my art of writing and drawing mixing all my feeling and love.

Maybe one day, when I can approach from a healthy place again, I’ll go back there too. Until then, I’m going to try and focus on the things that make me happy. And that’s what is happening. And that’s the truth…Namaste…❤