BOP #8: Voided

Nothing is coming to me.

There's a buzz behind my eyes, between my ears, whispering of all the delights the wonders, trying to break free, the desire to flourish and weave the mystical worlds that had so dazzled and mesmerized me. The childlike wonder that still resides inside.

Yet every start is a Bad Start, nothing is coming out right, nothing feels right.

Nothing is right.

I shouldn't be having so much difficulty with this. The person I am supposed to be, capable of being, isn't this pathetic.

All of this wonder, all of it, unable to flow into the black and white print I have so often turned to.

More disappointing still is I look at those around me. A group I knew once.

Daven, Nash, Elam, Tate, Danny, and at Times Morta, to name a few, are the most recent of these reminders.

Their banter, their laughter, the hilarity that ensues in the wake of their brilliance.

None of which shines in my own work.

I want to scream at them. Why aren't they putting it to good use. Why aren't they the ones writing the stories?

Why am I, the one who actually wants to do something with that talent, the one that never had it? Born without a sense of humor. Utterly Hilarious.

A part of me is jealous that I'll never be able to join in on the fun. Both with my friends, and with my creations.

To them I owe an apology.

Some Creator I turned out to be. Their voices have faded so much. Nothing more than the occasional hum in the back of the mind.

Try as I might to reach for them, they grow fainter still. Maybe it's a case of trying too hard. But truly if that is so, why then is the page still blank during Mania?

Things aren't okay. Not because of any extrinsic factors.

It never is.

It's always me.

There's something wrong with me.

Not because there actually is, but because of me. I'm making something wrong with me. Even if I'm not trying to I am. It's my fault. It's not anyone else's, it never is.

I don't want to blame anyone else for this, because I know where this stems from.

When the fog rolls in and I find myself staring at a wall without a passing thought, when I see what should be happy things, and only remember what is wrong.

I'm a jester, have always been somewhat of a prankster for the lighthearted plays. So why can't I apply that when I want to?

Some might say it's because I'm trying too hard.

But the problem is I always live in the moment. I don't have the self debilitating stress of "putting myself on the spot" so to speak.

The positive feedback loop of pressure and stress.

My back wont thank me for the late night. I know I'm already not.