Creativity
I don’t understand being creative.
I tried learning to paint and I couldn’t find joy in it. That may not be a frustration with the due process, which thus makes it a bad example. But I, I suppose, never got the joy of sketching things in real life. Intellectually, yes, I did, the symmetry, the interactions of light, the beauty of the objects, I comprehend the joy of that. But never did it turn into something I had to capture. My creativity was focused on things I cared for, which was fandom, and male form. And even then, in hindsight I think the greater joy was advancing and finally being good at something. In fact, when I imagined what I would draw if I got good I couldn’t really imagine much.
Which is the crux of the issue. After university and beyond proving that I am an utter moron, I desperately wanted something to prove I am not. And since employment wasn’t coming, I got creative. ™. I went in that direction because what else is there for me? Just thinking about it makes me want to finish a bottle of vodka in one sitting.
When I imagine what kinda creative I wanna be, I think about RPG Maker, ENA, surreal stuff, JOJO. Stylish, flashy, combined, but capable of moving while being ridiculous and unbound. My tendency to do deep research and become paralyzed, worried about showing the real makes something that is not real and yet strikes us right in the mouth, right in our teeth, even more compelling.. Restlessly combining things. Writing wise I think about good sentences. Flow. Evocativeness. Punchiness, again. But I know now I will never make something like that, ever. The idea of alternatives. Will never happen. Can’t think out of box if your whole fucking brain is a box. Too much focus on what could be. Never enough energy. Not enough creativity, creativity, creativity.
The reason I can’t be fucking creative is because all I want is to be something. Not even someone. We have to work our way there through something. Or maybe it is something else, something the self-despising mind can’t see. Is it my autism that wants everything to make sense to all unfold from something? I do get ideas on occasions, but they break like glass when I think beyond one sentence, one word. Can I even blame autism on this? Is there maybe a rock where my creative site is supposed to be? Box, box, box. Always wanting to be in rock. Want things fast. Not thinking through, because I am either in a state of paralysis or finally deciding something has to happen and doing it right. Never choosing the right moment. Forgive the video game metaphor but it’s like when you are fishing in some games and there's a slider that moves and moves and you must hit the green zone, but guess what, my stupid self can’t hit it. I am not made for improvement. Everything is chaos, a vortex, everything is a tornado. I missed my shot at being creative by 25 years.
The big part of it, to get back, is that all my creativity wants is mimicry. It has one simple want, one simple need, which is to be fucking something. Not just the silver edge of the mirror. It wants to be a person. Reach out and grab at their neck and rip into the tender vein and fill oneself up. Break out, covered in those shards. But it can only be a fucking fascimile, something that plays wrong script in wrong moment. It reaches for creativity now, because it wants fulfilment and wholeness, like a discarded shell of metamorphosised butterfly. Worst thing is all my mind knows is to trod the same fucking paths, without stopping. It rarely lets itself be creative and even then only when framework is given to it. I despise it. I wish I could take out my brain and my heart and put them in blender to make one do what the other wants it to. Like there is pathway that is blocked between two parts of me.
I hunger. I eat, I devour and I want to rip apart raw flesh of creativity and integrate it, but I never can because something is wrong with me, or I simply always consume. It does my stomach no good, it can not utilize the vitamins.
And there is no solution. You know what irritates me about the way people read Rider Waite Smith’s 8th of Sword? You know when the woman is trapped by swords but there is a path there between them? The common advice I see in books is “Ah stupid woman. If only she took the sword and cut herself free”. And I frankly feel like the people saying that are having a bit of Horror Movie Foresight Syndrome? She can’t see what to do and knowledge of swords keeps her in danger. There is a stream under her feet, making her liable to slip and fall and slice herself open. It is absolutely not an easy position to be in. And that is how I feel like. Like I am that fucking woman, with blindfold so work it melded with my skin, eyes that haven’t seen lights in so long they forgot to process it. And I don’t fucking know how to rip it all off and I keep bumping into the godamn swords and it’s just. A pain.
Creativity for me is pain. An edge of mirror I exist in, laughing at my absence at things I lack.