not really alive . . . unless

The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: a human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him…a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create…so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless creating.
— Pearl Buck

to what do i owe this honor of being born abnormally? why must i feel things a hundred times more deeply than the average human being? the tragedies happen too often. the joys don't last long enough. the love, oh how deeply it hurts. and the failure. the failure. the constant waves of emotion, the opposite extremes, the volatility of everything, it's all so frightening. living life, wanting to take control so badly, but being unable to do so. the longing to realize your hopes and dreams, but knowing that at any second something can come to knock you down mid-flight is exhausting. the delicate balance between hope and despair. confidence and self-condemnation.

there is no way to fully satisfy the desire to create in me. the creative juices are always churning in my being. it is a rare occasion to get what is in my mind to flow out my fingertips. there is a thrill in the challenge to make something beautiful. a natural high that some others never experience. the never ending quest to find the perfect color for a sunset. the struggle to convey the slightest of shadows. design. balance. composition. feeling that something doesn't look quite right, but not always knowing why. being moved to tears by a single painting and its beauty. being moved to tears by a single painting because you are incapable of getting it just right. hearing a symphony and all its parts in your mind, but not having the know how to get it out on paper.

it is true. there is a drive, a primal urge to create. to paint. to write. to play.

this is my life. this is what i must put up with, be it good or bad. i'm not really alive unless i am experiencing or struggling with all these things. these beautifully frustrating things.

i'm not really alive . . . unless. unless i'm just being me.