Maybe

I know how to break a creator’s heart.

Simply tell them, “maybe”.

Maybe things will change, maybe tomorrow won’t be the same, maybe I’ll answer the phone when you call.

There is no word more venomous, more potent, more damning than the word ‘maybe’ to a creative person, for the creator knows that ‘maybe’ does not exist in creation.

No, in creation, there simply is or there isn’t.

What artist traces a line onto a blank canvas with the word ‘maybe’ in mind? What composer inserts a note in just the right place, hoping ‘maybe’? What writer frantically scribbles down a passing thought onto a note-pad thinking, ‘maybe’?

No, the creator knows.
The creator knows what is and what isn’t.

Should something unwanted find its way into the composition, a misplaced line, a wrong note, a poor choice of words, it is destroyed.

The creator sees the grand result before it even exists, and in the struggle to snatch it from vision to reality, knows what must stay and what must go.

‘Maybe’ has no place in the vast world of creation.

Maybe the sun will rise for just one more day, maybe the moon will come out for just one more night, maybe your heart will beat just one more beat.

No, there is no such thing.

So now you know why every time you tell me ‘maybe’,

you break my heart.

Sidewalk

Walking down that old familiar sidewalk, it seems like walking back in time. It's cracked in all the same places, it takes all the same bends and curves, and it still goes nowhere.

Walking down that sidewalk, It almost feels like I'm that person I used to be. That kid walking up and down that old, lonely path hoping it leads somewhere different, hoping it ends up somewhere better.

I remember staring down at the concrete, thinking to myself that one day I'll be where I want to be, that if I keep on going, I'll make it there.

And I'm still walking that path, that long, lonely path to somewhere different, somewhere better.

But what good would it be if I walked this path all the way to paradise, and to my disappointment find that it didn't lead me to you instead?

Experimenting with... Lyrics?

I want to keep improving! So I'm gonna try something random and new... song lyrics. Let's see how I do lol

Letter to Lonely

Hey lonely, we miss you out here
Haven't seen you in a while,
I've so missed seeing your smile,
I think it's been months, maybe a year
I've been calling you, lonely,
But you just won't hear me out
Tell me now, tell me,
What's this problem about?

Dear friend, why won't you come outside
I'm writing because I'm worried, so worried,
it's like part of you has died.
Hey lonely, lonely, it's not so bad,
Come out, come out now, no need to be sad.

It's been so hard without you there,
I've tried to just keep going,
but the pain keeps showing,
it's just like nobody seems to care
Lonely, how did it all fall apart?
I promise we can help you,
I promise we will help you,
We can save your broken heart

I hope you'll read this soon,
and I hope it ends this night,
this terrible friendless night,
this endless night without a moon
Lonely, lonely,
I hope you'll read this soon,

Dear friend, why won't you come outside
I'm writing because I'm worried, so worried,
it's like part of you has died.
Hey lonely, lonely, it's not so bad,
Come out, come out now, no need to be sad.

The Mobile

I was walking around campus one day at night, I really like to do that, and casually looked up at the stars. I began to contemplate everything, the everything of life. I looked up at the night sky, simple to the eye, yet supremely complex and incomprehensible. I looked up at the night sky as perhaps a child would look at a mobile hanging over the crib. A mobile that has been gently nudged into motion, swinging slowly in perfect symmetry and balance.

All things are set in marvelous, miraculous motion. And we, the awestruck infants, are dazzled by its complexity. Everything that is has been gently nudged into being. A cosmic force, a gentle touch, an epic event, a minor occurrence.

And we spin in perfect balance, never failing, never changing in absolute perfect harmony. We are but the molecules of the everything, the tiniest parts of a grand whole that constitutes a mere part of an even greater sum.

Who are we? Where are we? Why are we? In our confusion, many times we forget. This we are, here we are, because.

We are the grand composition, inseparable from the parts that constitutes us, indivisible from the whole which we make up.

All things pushed forward must stop, and so must we. The mobile must eventually stop spinning, the gentle nudge creates only a short spectacle, and so all that we are must end. Yet, while is the end we fear, it is the end that makes all things brief, beautiful, and true.

Looking up at the stars, I feel a great sense of self. As the earth spins closer to another day, around a sun that will shine for at least another morning, centered in a vast universe that is a mere pinpoint in space, I do not feel lost.

All things are brief, all things are beautiful, all things are true.

Pastels and Charcoals

Lately, a great deal of people have shown growing concern for me. I have not been able to function for a while now, I can't go anywhere with a friend without the fear of another anxiety attack or a rapid mood change, I can't enjoy a nice sunny day without chronic depression gathering like storm clouds over my head. I'm getting some help, and I'm getting it soon. Not that I'm too proud of it, I like handling things on my own, but I'm smart enough to know when enough is enough and when I can't do it alone. The pain is too much, and though some people may judge me, I know what I have to do. This undiagnosed illness may not be a flu or a fever or something you can see, but I know it's real, and I know I must treat it. I'm done fighting by myself, and this is for the good of my mental health.

I think that my writing has suffered as well, and I've been investing more and more of my time into my art. At the end of the day, I know that there's a blank canvas that I can pour absolutely anything into. The colors, the lines, the composition, all under my control, a small universe under my jurisdiction.

My medium of choice are pastels and charcoals. If I'm feeling happy, I like the vibrant and fun colors of the pastels. If I'm feeling down, I use the dark charcoals.

It seems that I've been composing my life out of charcoal for a long time now, and I miss in a way I can't describe using pastels. I'm not in control of my own life like I'm in control of the canvas, I can't make a happy day like I can draw a happy scene. So now, I'm going to find a way to get rid of all this charcoal... somehow, some way, I'm going to try my best.

Heavy is the Head that Wears the Crown

Sometimes I feel like practicing my rhyming LOL

I've seen the crowds rise to their feet,
I've tasted victory on every feat,
I've heard the praise for every obstacle I meet,
But if they only knew the throne is such a lonely, lonely seat

Heavy is the head that wears the crown,
For after the crowds disappear and the sun goes down
These castle hallways haunt me so
Fear follows me wherever I go

I built my palace on a lake of tears,
On broken swords and shattered spears,
And a mighty ruler learns after many years
That the powerful don't show their tears

And I'd give all the riches and all the fame
I'd give England, France, and Spain
Just to know that tomorrow won't be the same,
To know these thoughts won't be in my brain,
To lose myself and take a different name,

But there's no rest for the king
And I know what tomorrow will bring
For me the sun won't rise and the birds wont sing

There's only this painted frown,
Heavy is the head,
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

Disorder

It is difficult to say why it happens, difficult to say exactly how it feels, and difficult to share with others.

I want to tell the whole world what's wrong, and all at once keep it to myself forever without telling a soul.

I want to scream a million different things. Things about the torturous mind, about the hopelessness, about why the caged bird sings.

It watches like a falcon, silently waiting and watching, and then quietly pounces on every hope and joy until none remain.

It stalks the jungles of my thoughts like a jaguar, full of hunger and silent malice.

It strikes like a cobra. One brief violent flurry of fangs and venom, and then suddenly nothing.

Nothing, like it had never occurred, the mind can't seem to ever recall how it could have felt the way it did five minutes ago.

It leaves no scars, no clear marks, no blood, no bruises... it leaves not a trace of its lethal injection, barely a memory even remains.

But it happens, and it happens frequently. My hands begin to shake, my vision begins to blur, my breathing becomes strained, and every friend in the world melts into the earth and does not exist.

There is only me and the python, only me and this disorder, and it is a battle I fight very much alone.