I Dearly Miss Chaotic Creativity

Writing something before titling it seems counterproductive to a person who has had writer's block, and sketcher's block if such a thing exists, for years since having taken lexapro for a mere month. As is true with certain established creative minds that numerous numbers currently treasure though, without chaos or tragedy there is a lack of meaning or creativity in our creations. Absolute mediocrity with a splash of desperation doesn't cut it.

To be sixteen again addicted to drugs and living with a bipolar parent off their medication. This does not seem strange to wish for at the particular moment. Every daily assignment or quiz was littered with sketches, poetry, and songs or bands that currently influenced me written in a unique font, and I saved every one of them until a couple of years ago. Every one was a piece of me, and I loved it dearly. God forbid it was crinkled or given any creases. I would feel damaged. There is still a folder in the storage unit out back with pickings of my favorites, a few of which are on here.

What is miss the most besides feelings absolute devotion and identity with these pieces is the focus. To be that focused on the present moment, deadly focused, not even irritable at invasions, I'd simply ignore them until forced otherwise. Picking up pencil and paper, and just going. Rants, random thoughts and philosophies, heads of people I had or hadn't seen in my mind. I remember drawing a character's head titled "Moose" for a friend and her being blows away watching it come to life. It was dark, as out group liked, but comical and detailed. An experienced therapist could've probably dissected it to the core and told me who I was. These things I dearly miss. Back to the monotony. At least nowadays I can cook.