Draft August 12th finished August 20th, 2026. Finished through much delirium, a magnesium pill and nighttime tea.

It’s a fast train I’m on. This blog, right now, feels like it’ll last forever. I could fill this room with all the ideas that came to me just today while at work, have them stacked messily and up to the ceiling. I can’t help but feel like inspiration is permanent once it starts. I recognize my patterns. Prior to this kick, I hadn’t written or created anything in 6 months. I’ve ignored how frightening this break has been. Had a flea in my ear repeating to me that I would be stuck like this and to retire my dreams. Flea is in an escape room. I’m here now, on a rampage through the city and I will never die.

If I plan or fantasize too far ahead, I lose the spark that allows me to do. I think I actually lose respect for the idea, start to hate it even. It’s that I’ve thought about how it could go in intense detail, so it feels like I already did it. Useless and in my head yeah but trying to actually do something about it makes me feel like a fraud and turns the idea into a nuisance. The thought already came and the more I think of it the more used it gets, the more unoriginal it feels. Who am I trying to prove my thoughts to? If it truly belongs to me, do I really have to physically paint it in order for it to be of any worth? I don’t like that my creations have to be perceived by a crowd to experience love. I’m prone to those really messed up coma dreams. Worse than spooky scary. Fake life. Days to years of life lived. I’ve met the love of my life, married, given birth to my children, accomplished my goals, and then I wake up. I get really scared to fall asleep sometimes. 

Is this dangerous? Living inside your own mind for most of your life? When I organize my portfolio, I make a face. “Is this a joke?” I play with my hobbies like new toys for a spoiled child. They come and go, get tossed around and thrown out. But my ability to spew out an idea has been the only thing about me that I can rely on to be reoccurring. So where is this landfill? I’ve been tossing paper balls in it for about 20 years now. It’s like a riddle. Your friend weighs nothing, can duplicate themselves an unlimited number of times. You’ve never seen your friend, actually, no one has. How is this possible? Your friend is imaginary.

A brilliant idea dying before it is born. Except it was born. In a world inside me where it lived a fulfilled and happy life. Shouldn’t that matter? It’s life and death happened. Being the creator, I’ve decided that there’s nothing more and this way I get to keep it, special to me. I do this outside too. If I tell a joke in a crowded room and no one hears it, yes, I feel the loss of all eyes on me and potential shared love, but I always quickly revert back to “well hey! I thought it, I shared it, I gave it love” that should matter. I get irritable when I need to repeat something I’ve said. The more it gets repeated aloud the less fire it has. I cease to own it, it feels like it’s disappearing and none of it is recognizable to me anymore. Dying of old age. Songs that become stale or even boring when you learn the lyrics. 

My solution for this: If you have an idea drop everything you’re doing and create it from 0 to 100% completion, one go. Do not allow yourself to build that city of expectation. It deserves a life outside, free and on its own. Time to leave the nest, no look backs. I’ve stopped predicting what life will be like. The only task is climb this hill and get rewarded with a view. If I didn’t do this, I would eventually vanish into thin air, and it would be like never existing to begin with.

Tomorrow I get back on the piano. Pick up right where I left off.