If my motivations were sketched on a treasure map, my urge to create would invariable be a squiggled line that knits and whirlwinds across vast oceans and over yawning land masses, inevitably stopping in some great city that hangs over the land like a cloud. That is if I allowed myself the time to travel that line, rewarding in the long term it may be, the journey will be pitted with perilous self-doubt and crippling anguish.
If my urge to create were personified, it would be a beautiful actress who drifts between characters and emotions, teasing and playful but always distant, indefinable. She awaits her next play and constructed set, which she will fill, the fabrication becoming more real than life. She will become unattainable as I forget her truth and just see her mask, a Jokers face repulsing me. I can't hold her.
Why must I write? The feeling topples me, existing not centre in my body but to the left, in my left arm, in my left lung, in my left eye that squints as I think. I cannot place it for sure, and it slips through my fingers like a mouse scurrying, but it spins for sure, driving me forward with each tentative word. Forever it seems unreal, extinct, and without purpose. To live is not to write but to breathe and love, so why must I write if not to exist. It just seems pointless but I am unable not to do it in case I become just that, without meaning.
Before I wrote, up to about ten months ago, I was null. I just moved through life leaving no residue, no evidence of me, and I found people forgetting that I was 'there' at a party, or reciting that joke, or in the country. Now that I do, it seems a mark has been impressed onto the wall, a mark that reads 'I am here. You can't ignore me. Don't forget me'.
I have many fears that strip and humble me. I fear that I am wasting my time writing, that I am not good at it, that if I can't compete professionally, I should quit and be merry with my mundane life. I have hopes that lift and carry me. To excel, to entertain and enlighten, to prove my worth and stand tall and proud. To be fulfilled and complete. To be happy with what I can do because it is good and valuable. Just to be content and safe in me.
Nevertheless, I brush my teeth of the worry and continue. I believe I am capable of more than just entertaining myself in spasms, night by nightlife divided by drinks consumed and clothes bought. I believe that something I write will be a reward for existence, that my train will find it’s track and that my destination will become obvious and worth the journey. This belief creates fantasies that I know won’t materialise but they too form a basis for my devotion to the written word. I am going to maintain this hobby, even if I don’t understand why I should or fully believe that I am capable of mastering it. I guess I just have to.
I cannot perform: anxiety. I can do better: determination. I am less than you: inferiority. For you consideration: dependence. For you enjoyment: relaxed. I love you: a lie. I love you: exposed. I can't feel anything: death. I wish things had gone differently: redundant. Everything will be fine: concentrate. I have legs: to carry. I have hands: to write. I have a voice: listen. I have a mind. I have a mind. I have a mind. I believe.