Creative - Gabby Huffman

I sit in my desolate apartment with white walls and colorful pink posters hardly brightening up the atmosphere. I scribble across my displayed sketchbook being held up by my legs, each thought overlapping with one another. Assignments for my classes pull me down, like chains clasped around my ankles, though ultimately being ignored.  I hunger for creativity, I thrive on the interior gears of my mind concocting whatever can be coherent enough to jot down. My mind is so frazzled and lost, not knowing what right is from left, up is from down, if I’m hungry or thirsty, if I’m tired or can continue chugging along. My hands feel no pressure or agony as they scribble doodles across the page, they barely exist in the realm of my mind, only in the means of aiding my conquest of manipulating the world to my will.

Whenever I create and concoct, I feel absolute euphoria and relief through my entire body. I feel so much lighter; I carry myself higher; my appearance is brighter. My entire personality seems to shift into an entirely different person that not a single person can recognize. The experience is almost ethereal, like I am out of my body.

My mind orchestrates an immense amount of ideas, conducting down to every detail, leaving me awestruck. I seem to live in my mind with the thoughts and ideas that swarm back and forth. I live with the characters and environments I create, I am one of them interacting with the events and space. I can feel all the sensations they do down to the hair standing up on the back of my neck.

However, among all the creativity, I am only able to comprehend a small portion of whatever illustrious concepts I may have. Even though I may understand a small portion of my thoughts, I can only materialize a miniscule fraction of those as well, leaving the thoughts to construe and confuse the rest of the left behind ideas. I feel as though I have lost another life, my friends and family I had imagined are now all gone forever, one that was once full of happiness but has now disappeared in the void that is my brain. 

The worlds I create are mine and mine alone. My creation, the people whose lives are put into my hands, I hold the power to bend them at my will. The fairies that fly around the woods in search of their friend, the vampires that hunt down each other in hopes to keep order, and the lovers who run across the world to find happiness which was always with each other. I play god over their heads, whispering in their ear, making every decision for them. Every horrendous and agonizing event is brought down by my own hands. Every joyous and ecstatic event is all thanks to me. They only exist because of me.

The hypothetical god who controls me may think the same thing, though sparing me from his horrendous touch we both hold, however, leaving me to wallow in my own pool of endless thoughts and anxieties. He scratches away on his pages writing my story constructing every vein in my body with the tip of his pencil.  I bend to his will as all my creations bend to mine.

Though despite all the existential crisis, I still press on towards the end goal: to create. No amount of life contemplation or higher-being can prevent me from frivolously scuffing down a symphony of ideas and thoughts onto a page. The disarray that is my mind never fails to surprise me. Every idea, every thought, every perfectly good storyline or character that oozes down to the paper is always something worth being proud of. Through all the blood, sweat, and tears, I always seem to prevail.

At this moment, I am at my peak. I have just climbed the tallest mountain, knowing soon I will fall back down again. The deep and darkness claws at my feet every scratch I make on the paper, every thought that I can conduct. My chest feels heavy knowing the inevitability of my fate.