Since I last posted something, it really has. The last half year or so has been pretty rough for me. Death, dying, depression common themes. Friends getting estranged from their families, going through chemo, getting sued, contemplating suicide. I am glad everyone is much better now.

First relationship, first trying to believe, trying to trust. First getting broken up. First time dealing with the emotional drama that I had always considered pointless, idiotic, and avoided in childlike fear. Possibly it was love.

Finding out my grandfather had cancer. Watching him wither away and forgetting us all, one by one. Having to be the responsible one, pretending everything is alright, because I cannot fall apart. Returning to childhood days, having to be strong, because there would be no one to catch me, because more often than not parents were more childlike than I.

Because if I fell, would there be anyone to catch me? To find me before I fall beyond repair?

He passed away about two months ago. I have set my desktop to a photo of my cousins and I with our grandfather, to remind me that it did indeed happen. That I cannot keep running, keep pretending.

And during this time, I felt my creativity being stoppered. As if if I had let it go, if I had allowed the creative juices to enter my body I would have exploded out of control, into a frenzy, a mess of outlets. Because I did not want to be real, did not want to feel, did not want to touch the raw nerve endings, the fuses so close to blowing. I was afraid that if I got close to my self I could spin out of control and suddenly make an irreconcilable decision. Suddenly self-destruct. So its been awhile.

Strange time that was. As if I had forgotten how it was to be me.

For I am only ever truly myself when I am creating.