My Brain's Relationship with Writing

I encounter a mental barrier when I write. I would like to share this peculiarity.

My initial idea enters my mind in the usual fashion, often when I am staring at something that captivates my interest. I have a passion for observing the painfully mundane and then using poetic diction to adorn it with elegance, as if dressing it in tiaras and gowns, complete with makeup. However, the result often resembles a girl who is normally bare-faced everyday; she may appear beautiful once painted, but the subtle sense of dissonance, unfamiliarity, and awkwardness is conspicuously present. Occasionally, the girl manages to exude an unprecedented naturalness while showcasing her painted beauty, but this is rare.


When I paint my subject, a mindset pattern emerges; my brain feels threatened by good ideas, and deploys a defense mechanism. It tells me that I cannot pursue that idea. This typically occurs when I am on the verge of a breakthrough, often a pensive, poetic phrase that would undoubtedly elevate my writing. I get a flash of my parents, and I stop. I resume to what I perceive as conventional, I revert back to a writing style that is not my own but rather someone else's. I believe my mind has subconsciously concluded that it is better to mimic others than to express my authentic self; Perhaps due to lack of exploration, regarding my personal self alongside my writing flair; and my brain seems to fear the unknown to an unusual degree. I mechanically shut the idea down and the previous contemplation feels foreign to me, so foreign that I struggle to identify with it. I resume painting the mundane girl with trendy eyebrows, presenting her in a conventional manner.


My brain is obsessed with conventionalism. At times, I amusingly envision my brain as a cartoon being, standing in a black cell, foaming at the mouth, deprived of its fix of conventionalism and acceptance. When I look at it I feel an innate repulsion, akin to witnessing a friend who used to be half decent; but is now literally twitching before you, asking you to fuel their addiction. You are conditioned to sympathise with them, yet their uncontrollable desire, displayed so degenerately, makes you feel sick, doesn't it? Regardless of how covert may they ask for help--whether they whisper or play it off as a normal request; it still feels repugnant. This is precisely how I feel when I confront my own mind. It disregards my Christian moral system and reverts to the Cain within; it is repulsive. Funnily enough, this doesn't exactly lead to overwhelming self-hatred but rather to dissociation, which is subjectively worse. I see my thoughts as something separate from me.


Ironically, gurus often assert that this is a good thing-- you know: "You are not your thoughts; therefore, they have no control over you." But it feels as though my thoughts do control me; they are like a foreign tyrant invading my brain's potential and forcing it into submission. Not to be overly graphic, but it evokes the treatment of enslaved people in the 1800s: the ethnocide of enslaved Africans, who were whipped into discarding their original identities in order to adopt those of their oppressors. I experience a similar struggle, albeit on a mental level. My brain does not recognise the immeasurable value of my authenticity, leading to a persistent cycle of frustration fueled by perceived threats that are mentally amplified.