Losing Rhythms, Creating Meaning
For the last few months, I've been banging my head against the wall that is visual art. My drawings are stilted, lifeless marvels that do little to offer any sense of creative expansion on my part. Expansion, in this personal sense, is akin to freedom. I've realized that there are very few things in my life that mimic what birds must feel when they take flight. I'm really trapped down here in the mud lately, the muck of social media, the miasma of facebook, the cacophony of twitter. I put earbuds in to drown out the angry people on the bus, the lecherous dudes on the street, the mewling pangs of screaming children in close quarters. I bend into myself. I blend in with the trees. I try to disappear. And then I remember writing. It was that little "write a poem about the ink you blew through a straw onto a white piece of paper and what it looks like" sort of exercise in third grade where it all began. I'd never heard of poetry until that day. I was really ne