#thoughtbubbles

Words burn into my tongue,

Branding my fate.

Blood oozes and stains my lips.

Red lips frowning, they see me?

"Open your mouth!" they shout.

I cannot hide the branding or the blood,

Cinnamon Coffee, Pork Roll Egg and Cheese.

Those who call you dad bound down like hounds,

Pups in their pajamas, cartoons and cuddles with Mama.

Green turning its fresh face towards orange,

The littered leaves laminate the bottom of our boots.

Small hands held by larger fingers they know so well.

We speak to each other with love, for we have created

Small trusting smiles, filled with gaps the tooth fairy paid.

There are many times in which I wish that I was brave enough to type something out, read it once over, and click submit. However, my process of writing is a bit more complicated than that. In the world of authors there are those who write everything out all at once, see where their brain takes them and then follow the thought to completion. Think of the Neil Gaiman's or Stephen King's. Then there are others who delicately craft sentences one syllable at a time, ensuring that even the punctuation serves a valiant purpose. Think of the William Shakespeare's and George R. R. Martin's. Not only do these authors manage to create work that revolves around an imaginative and attention-grabbing plot, but the characters and dialogue aid in the delivery of theme, symbolism, and on the whole create what is formally known as "literature."

When I am feeling particularly blue it is extremely difficult for me to create such things that hold the weight and integrity of "literature." But, I often feel as though, if I were able to articulate my stories and find the right words to express the deep emotions that I feel, it might be something worth reading. Then I fight back with myself and say, "Writing should not be performative, emotions are not currency." However, if I truly felt this way I would not be posting my writings to a public platform for strangers to read. But then again, I am anonymous and no one in my real life even knows that I have this secret blog. And on and on the internal monologue continues.

Musical Theatre was my very first love. A wise man once said to me, “you don’t do theatre because you want to, you do it because you have to.” And nothing has made my heart quite so heavy. I stopped performing three years ago, and I miss it every single day. Singing is my absolute favorite thing to do. 

But why do we fall in love with art? Some fall in love with the action of doing. Painting, singing, dancing, the -ings are what becomes the driving force of passion and expression. However, there are those who prefer consumption of art and find complete expression and release through the artists work. Does this make those who consume art less than the artists? Or is there an art in viewing as well? 

When people are viewing a painting they often pull from many different parts of the work to form an opinion or conclusion: the history of the painter, the medium, the geometry, the colors, its standing within the time period or genre, and even the feelings that the execution of the painting stir up for the viewer (plus more I am sure I have not mentioned). This is an entirely different set of skills than the painter, and yet it allows them to create an entirely independent thought than what the artist had originally intended. This, in my opinion, is just as profound and impressive as the painting itself. There is an art in consuming art, and there are many ways in which people become skilled artists through everyday life, which is not only wildly impressive, but offers an insight into the human condition. We seek out artists in films, fanart, books, tiktok, youtube, museums, and especially music. 

What does it even mean to have “clout” or go “viral” in an age where everyone we know has an internet profile that exposes their inner most secrets to the world. Between all the platforms supposedly “stealing” data, the worst ones are the ones we pour our souls into for free. These companies see and prey on our weaknesses in order to reward us with advertisements or likes, or follows. Sometimes they are from friends, sometimes they are from strangers, and sometimes they are from no one at all. How can one find fulfillment in an age where interaction is not only falsified, but used as currency. That is why I debate whether or not I should add “tags” or photos to these little thought bubbles. Should this writing be used as “content” to entertain? Does this writing have meaning or value that I feel needs to be shared with the world? How self-important am I to decide if my contributions should be viewed as valuable or entertaining? 

On a greater scale, how do we form identity in an age where we get to choose exactly how we want to be perceived by perfect strangers? What does it mean to be a human when we can curate our image through angles, filters, photoshop, and a careful choice of words. How can reality be altered to reflect a certain agenda, and why do we fall for it? Not only this, but we have more access to each other than ever before, which is just as beautiful as it is harmful. People are witnessing the plethoras of people that exist, and just how truly unique we are. But we are also witnessing our sameness. How alike humanity is, and always has been. We weep, we yell, we smile, we laugh at all the same things we always have. 

Some might say we are worse off due to social media, and there are a variety of reasons: faltering identity, comparisons to falsehoods, and the permanence of our missteps (this deserves its own thought bubble). However, there are many ways in which we are better. We are more conscious of others, we see the love and hate in the world every day and must continue to grow forward and upward. We are resilient. We have exposure to others, and many learn that their flaws and differences are in fact valuable. We are connected. We are informed. However, people also learn to appreciate life outside of the internet much more, considering how demanding these social medias are on our psyche. 

i remember how it feels. i had forgotten.

how it feels to scream your lungs out at the world that is so cold and how it feels to advocate for the lives of those who have your soul. those who you long to know but have not met.

am i living yet?

i remember how it feels to be misunderstood for the crazy flesh that beats in my chest. perhaps i speak too often of the things others long to ignore. some days i wish my heart would mind it's business, stop beating itself sore.

but your wounds are my wounds and this world is ours together. so i can't help but to know the face of another.

I feel the burden on my neck, on my shoulders, on my upper back. I feel the tension of a thousand projects that need to be done. I hear my joints cracking with the whispers of “can you handle this?”. I see my thoughts, manifesting into endless lists of to-do’s and to-do’s today. I reek of sweat, mixed with tears of frustration from the stress of it all - from work, this place, my head.