Holy Crap! Wait, What?
Oh my god, six days went by! How the heck did that happen? I got sick these last six days so that was part of it. One day I woke up at three in the afternoon, which is pretty intense for me (though not as intense as it has been before). My sinuses were clogged, and I thought it was a sinus infection, so I went to the Little Clinic. There was a different woman there than last time.
Last time we thought I had strep because I had this bizarre rash. But, I went to the Family Medicine Center and he said that it was some kind of Rosacea that goes away on its own. I started using a gentle oatmeal body wash and poof, it disappeared!
Anyways, different woman, she prescribes a regiment of nasal wash, flonase, and mucinex. Well, in three days my sinuses cleared up really well, but I felt more sick. I have a deep somewhat mucous like cough. I’m not sure if its because I’m sick, or its because I’m allergic. I think it’s a combination of both, so we’ve washed the sheets, and we’re cleaning the cage. I was going to clean it today, but my art project took longer than I thought.
So despite having to use an asthma treatment spray every four hours, I did make it to class for Spanish and Drawing II. In Spanish I learned quite a bit of vocabulary for familial relationships. In art we had a work day for a project proposal of a self-portrait. We had to fashion an interview with someone who was close to us about ourselves. I was going to try my Mother, but I decided pragmatically to go with Maus. I was supposed to draw a mini picture and three thumbnails. I drew three thumbnails, but my mini picture was awful. I told her I was sick and couch bound most of the week, and she seemed understanding, but who knows.
In other artistic news, the Professor wrote that I had ‘carefully, and thoughtfully executed’ my color wheel. Yay!
My thoughts about the self-portrait project were obviously the mask of my Willy fursuit. I mean, what encapsulates my oddness, entertaining nature, and child like element than my fursuit head? So, I thought I’d draw two pictures and put them together, one of my fursuit head, and one of myself. I have to pick up a mirror tomorrow because I’ve drawn one head, now my head.
Creativity. Me and creativity, a love hate relationship. I always feel like I should be doing something else, or that I’m doing the wrong thing. But like in the grocery store, what is the difference between All or Gain? I feel like I don’t want to do any of the myriads of things I could do, and at the same time I’m like, “I can do all of these things!” I feel like I could have incredible things in my life if I just mustered up the motivation to take something accomplishable seriously. But I don’t. I just sit here in this uncomfortable static fog of depression, unsure of everything I do. I have a million ideas but no follow through, and I don’t know how to fix it.
Is this the dual blessing and curse? Is this the double edged sword?
Perhaps this is what’s past the grating edge of the day, a dark sea of possibilities. Figments of my imagination become figments of my life. I wish I understood. It seems to be a heritage to feel as if I’m being punished for something unknown. I do too. But I see past that.
All my ideas are just dreams that maybe I’m afraid to see happen. They seem better in my head. I want so many things but I’m unable to do anything about it. I don’t understand. I’m a perfectly capable person with time on his hands. Is this what I was avoiding in my early twenties? The fact that I can’t really do anything? It always starts, and then… nothing. Everything gets tucked back into that dark sea like that’ll make me feel better. But it doesn’t. It never does.
I’m so afraid that someday I’ll look back on my life and realize how boring it all really was and lament because it didn’t have to be that way. But, I think, my games are boring, my stories are boring, my programming is boring… I wonder if maybe I have this attitude towards my creativity because when I was growing up, I never really got the intention that abstract artsy things, like comics, or stories, or other things had as much value. It seemed that everything I tried to do wasn’t really valuable. My games weren’t up to par compared to other people’s games, my stories, like my 101 Dragons, were of a type that, I quote my half-brother, “Who’d read a book like that?” (Looks at fantastical compendiums and hears crickets chirping…)
I put myself in the hands of other people, but only because I feel like I need other people. Why? Why do I do this to myself? I’m not blaming anybody, I’m not saying, well because of them I didn’t do this or that. Nothing like that. I didn’t do this or that, or didn’t do it well because I myself didn’t deem it as valuable I suppose. Valuable always seemed to be something more concrete, animals, fences… my flights of imagination were just my own thing. How come I can’t seem to understand this anxiety towards doing anything comes from? I’m existentially depressed all the time, and I lack motivation for anything. And then when I think I want to do something, I can’t decide what… it’s driving me nuts.