March 3, 2020



I miss really listening to music. I miss reading the lyrics in the fold of the album cover. I miss the anticipation of buying the album: saving the money, standing in line. I miss listening to music, and by listening I mean absorbing. No one absorbs anymore. I remember when I was a sponge. I remember when I made the time to create, when I had to create or I’d go insane; when I was itching so badly to put my pencil to the sketchpad, my paintbrush to the canvas, my fingers to the keys, my pen to the paper. I miss the late nights I’d spend writing down my every thought so that they couldn’t leave me. I remember crying onto the paper because that made things permanent. I remember those nights feeling so alone that I couldn’t sleep, which then forced me to open a book or my bible. Where is the incentive now? Where is the time? Where is the yearning? Why isn’t it alive anymore? Is my creativity dead or sleeping? Sometimes I feel like I dreamt it all; my youth, those nights, the loneliness, the pain, the inspiration, the yearning. I look at my old writings, paintings, drawings and think that couldn’t have been me. I’ve always looked at myself as ordinary. Was I really this extraordinary? I blame technology. I blame the thing in our hands. I blame the feed, the “connection”. I blame the screen, the deception. Where is my mind? The Pixies asked the same question years ago, not knowing what the future held. I feel aimless, dry, altered. I want to overflow again. I know now that I don’t need to hurt so bad in order to create. I know now that I don’t need to feel alone to feel inspired, but this new life leaves me feeling artistically empty. Is it the lack of time? Is it my age? I told myself I would never let myself feel old, but I can understand the temptation of giving up because work, family, and finances take over. There’s freedom in knowing, however, that it doesn’t last forever. Forever is filled with possibilities thanks to Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior.




Photo by Maya Chavez (@mayarchavz)

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