…I mean like those people who are analyzed all over the web, I feel horrible. I feel like I do not operate at the same level as so many people. Words don’t come. Sentences are forced. But only when I forget that I am creative. Then, this happens. Words flow. It comes an goes at random times…like at work.Words flow. I have to write down the emotion. I misspell things in the process. It does not really matter anyway. Who has time for a dictionary? Long hand, blog posts are written and forgotten. When I forget I am a creative, I get bored. When I get bored, I doodle. In the meaningless doodle, I find it. I find my creative side. During the unexpected, creativity flows and seems like it will never be able to be translated into typed form. Or can it? Can it ever show that I am losing room on the paper? Or does the scroll eliminate that possibility?
It is too easy to erase things while blogging. When writing on paper, you see the mistakes. The wrong words. The do-overs. The blog just seems so polished compared to the draft. Ever word has potential. When writing on paper, the page is blank but running out. These little creative moments. They help me forget about the conformity of everyday. Rules of writing, when learned, can be broken for something more than the sum of the parts. Some molds can not be broken. Sometimes, you have to pretend. Not in writing. Not when being authentic. Being authentic brings the pain with the healing. I forget that being authentic means showing the scars…something I don’t really do. I hide behind a band-aid. Literally. Not metaphorically. In acting, I was taught that the most meaningful performance does not come from creating the moment from scratch. The best acting comes from a place of memory.
The conformity of everyday. It bores. I forget while I hide behind my mask. The smiley, machine-like mask of conformity. Then, that little voice tells me that I am the same as any other person. There is nothing special about me. I feel like Sherlock is in my brain saying:
BBC’s Sherlock
while Catherine Tate is all like:
And, all I can do is freeze. All I can do is force myself to forget that I am creative. To pretend that I am not special to fit in. To pretend that all of the creative things are bad and just to accept conformity.
But, I cannot fit in. In not even trying, I do not fit in. I notice things. And others might too. I realize that I may not make a significant difference to people all over the world with my way of thinking. Yet, I might inspire somebody. That might be it. One person. I might let them realize that they are a creative too. That being a creative is not something set in stone from the time of birth. It is hard work to spontaneously start a project. Habits have to be formed. It also takes a lot of forgetting. To forget critics. To forget norms of behavior. Yet, to remember. To remember a time that being creative was not hard. Where it was okay for things to be out of place. To remember that sentence fragments are not the end of the world. That everyone is human.
There is no real wrap-up. I just wanted to write in the manner of stream-of-consciousness. That was the best way to get some thoughts out.
Ramblings of the Random 