Manipulated Dreams

Creativity's Curse: Random Thoughts and Frustrations

No one understands how frustrating it is to be unable to do what you want and need to do. The frustration overwhelms you and slowly turns into depression, making you more unable to do anything at all. However you want to convert your emotions into something positive, or maybe divert your attention to something that could possibly lighten up your mood, your brain dictates you not to. You stagnate in your current inability; you become trapped in this cage that you built. And then you complain, an endless tirade of curses.

Like this one I’m doing now, well except for the cursing maybe.

It’s been quite some time since I wrote anything seriously. Writing romance is already like second nature, I breathe conceptual love and sometimes it’s already intoxicating. It’s never real. But it feels good to recreate some events and turn them into something uplifting. I don’t write for readers, or any stranger that would pass through my works. Like how I paint, I also write only for myself. It’s never the issue of doing something creative to earn a living, money to be specific. That’s like being a whore, you get paid for what you do best. Before you make any violent reactions try thinking how they are related.

So then! Back to my musings: I can’t fucking write at all. Permit me to curse nonchalantly I cannot contain myself anymore. I’ve been stuck at fixing my thesis for several weeks, and just a week more it will already be a month since I last tried to write. I must graduate by the middle of this year and I am running out of time. I still have fieldwork to do, go to the country side and gather all the information I need. The place is a great motivation already, it’s the top tourist destination in the country. Why the heck am I still stuck here then? Isn’t it enough that I’d be able to go there because I must? That’s the best chance to discover my photography and writing skills! But lo! Behold! My brain is stagnating!

In a day, I try my best to read and take notes. I am able to process ten pages of readings and take note around five pages of important information, or maybe some questions I need to research about more. Then evening falls, I must be able to use these notes into concepts I will use in my thesis. Yes they are possible conceptually, but my writing fails me. I get frustrated all the time I try to sit down and write. No matter how comfortable my situation is, still no writing comes out. I keep my areas clean, I mopped the floor, I am fed with comfort food, I regularly take a bath (Because when I am engrossed in working I somehow neglect hygiene. Too much information.), and I am drinking my ever loyal companion coffee. I can’t figure out what’s blocking my head to write.

I can’t reason out that I hate what I’m doing. I’ve tested my writing discipline. It wasn’t by chance that I was able to finish my stuffy romance stories, it was actually a training for myself. My target for each night was a thousand words. If I cannot fulfill that mere task, the consequence is to write three thousand words. And I was able to write more than those figures. And the topics are so mind shattering due to overwhelming cheesiness that is beyond my own tastes. The reason why I’m typing my thoughts out is to force myself to fill a thousand words, something with sense. I think my emotions and mood make sense and it helps clear out my mind as well.

I feel troubled and restless. I could even hardly sleep. I’d usually tire my eyes reading while soothing my ears with music. Out of my impatience I most often push away my papers and just sing my heart out. Yes I definitely forget people are already sleeping and my voice sounds annoying. I try to amuse myself with movies on my phone, just a distraction when my brain can no longer process the books that have piled up in my head. Sometimes I want to puke unnecessary information so I’d have space to take in more books. Sadly, I need to rest my head before I could add up to it. When I think of growing old and I forget some things I learned way back, I feel frightened. Maybe I’d die having Alzheimer’s or dementia because my brain is overused than the normal usage. It looks redundant but it can’t be avoided. Even when I write romance or poetry or mere blogs, I still use my brain of course.

It’s only when I paint that I don’t seem to use my brain. I never think where the lines or colors should go, I just let gravity and the environment take over the flow. I guess this is the reason why I love watercolor: it’s unpredictable, unmanageable, very much stubborn, and highly independent. Just like me! Unpredictable because you’d never know the results until the water dries out, unmanageable because they easily blend and get ugly muddy, stubborn because they will flow wherever they want to goddamn flow, and highly independent because they never think about consequences when they mix with other colors.

See the creativity? Never would anyone think that watercolors would behave that way, as if they were human. It’s just me and my fat brain.

Unfortunately, I cannot use this with technical writing: in writing my freaking goddamn thesis! I again end a night of academic frustration. Yes I am able to make two paintings, and is on the verge of preventing myself to make a third one because it’s already three in the morning. I really don’t know how to discipline, force, or torture myself to write and finish my responsibility. I tried. Hard. It’s becoming a pain etched in my chest, as if I am stabbed to my core because I’m giving my mom a hard time especially in constantly reminding me of what I must do. I don’t want to end up saddening her, frustrated at me because I’m a failure.

And most of all, I have to do this because I can never fail myself at what I professionally can do.