So, lately, these past few days have been pretty dry up in the old human brain, cerebrum, whatever you wanna call it, up there inside my head.
It’s not been a pretty feeling guys. I feel empty. It’s kind of like when your brain empty, then everything else in your body and in your life feels empty. And empty is scary.
My brain, as of late, is like a vast, dry, whistling air piece of deserted land that you can only hope will suddenly become a scene of cowboys and trotting neighing horses in the blurry distance, and then…WAIT FOR IT……CLINT EASTWOOD’S FACE AND PONCHO APPEAR IN CLOSE-UP, and at last your brain is where it’s meant to be. Because where there is a Clint with a poncho, there is a story.
But actually after that little splurge of imagination, my brain feels good, at least a little bit.
So my problem these past few weeks have been working creatively with my mind, or brain, as I like to call it. I feel like there is this lack-luster in everything that I think, or do, but the thing is, it feels that way because I’m not taking advantage of all my thoughts and ideas the way I always wish I would.
And it’s always, always about fear. I hate it.
I never think I’m goof enough, or capable enough to write a compelling, good nurtured, god forbid insightful story- but I don’t even give myself the chance to write one!
I mean, very few times I’ve managed to escape that relentless brick wall of fear that’s constantly in front of me through the tiniest of cracks and minor holes, but once I get through it, I whole new set of fresh air sets itself in, and it’s the most beautiful feeling in the world.
I become kind of sad when I don’t write. Depressed even- and when that happens, my brain basically feels empty. I mean, there should literally be a VACANT sign over my forehead to signifying the solemness of my brain. It’s so dramatic! There’s never been a tale of more woe! Oh, goodness.
Italics means sarcasm. I mean, it feels way too overly dramatic, speaking of my brain in terms of solemness, but that’s just how it feels; and where else to put it put in an obscure pointless blog, you know?
The bad thing about a solemn brain, is the fact that it’s kind of connected to your heart. I mean your metaphorical heart that your brain tricks you into believing is your source of feeling inside your chest. When I’m hurting, or feeling something, I always feel something right in the middle of my throat or right in the middle of my chest, near my heart, because I think my brain wants me to think that the beating blood chamber, AKA my hear, inside my chest is my source of feeling. Scientifically, I don’t think it is, but Un–or not scientifically… there must be some connection between the brain and the heart. The heart is to revolutionary infamous not to have some great, deep, dramatically soulful secret behind it.
So what I’m trying to say here is, my heart feels void of creativity and writing and stories as well. I guess one would call all this writer’s block, but there’s no way writer’s block is real, okay? okay. I mean, I’m writing right now aren’t I,?…so…Bam.
Anytime that I write, any words, any feelings that have long since reached the point of redundancy in my life, it feels good. It feels really good, and liberating, and fresh, and a whole much of stuff.
So I think I’m gonna write some more.