There's one thing I really hate being told and I get told it quite a bit really. That I should edit what I show of myself to the public, particularly in the area of self-doubt, negativity, self-deprecation, depression...
The idea I guess is that I should always show confidence, motivation, inspiration, etc, because by expressing doubt in myself people may doubt me also. Maybe believe in me less. Maybe want to know me less. I don't really know.
Well, I think that's bullshit. I'm a very complicated person. That's me. And I think artistic success comes from being vulnerable with people. Essentially the exact opposite of what people always tell me. Why can I never show doubt in myself? Doesn't everyone doubt themselves sometimes? Why should I never show my emotional swings of elation and depression? They are strangely unrelated to how good my life actually is. They're not a direct result of how my life is going. They're just there regardless. They're part of me. And I know I'm not the only one.
That is what music and other forms of artistry have always given me - a feeling that I wasn't alone. A feeling that someone out there feels the same as I feel, specifically in regards to the deepest feelings I have which I almost never share.
So I think those who ask me to edit myself are wrong. Yes, I'm too much of an open book at times, but maybe that's what makes me one of those people - the people that allow themselves to be so vulnerable that they share feelings that most others will never share, but still want to feel like they're not alone with. That others feel like they do, even if they can't be vulnerable enough to express it.
I think I edit too much of what goes onto this blog. So instead of leaving this poem in the "too negative, too vulnerable" pile I'm posting it. This is me. Sometimes bright, cheery, positive, soothing, happy. Sometimes dark, quiet, negative, angry, depressed.
And I know I'm not the only one.
Thanks to those willing to be vulnerable enough for me to see so...
~
The Red River
A slow-flowing river of red reaches out ahead, flanked by a river of bright white.
It's all wrapped in black.
I'm in the red river, red lights sometimes flashing, moving, shoving.
I'm in a black metal box with wheels.
All sealed inside, music loud, as loud as the system can allow. It wraps me up like a blanket, making me feel warm and safe. Not from harm, but bringing a state of mental calm that allows deeper feelings to flow from their sleeping places, now awake and naked.
I push through the red river, not ever a hesitation about how to cut through the slower crowd. The deep feelings free me of fear, the only time I don't hear fear's whispers in my ear.
Just the music. The red river. The feeling of speed while wrapped in the cozy blanket of my music-lined black box. I feel a connection with the music, like it was written by my own heart, though certainly not with my own hand.
Not these hands.
I sing as loud as my voice and my slowly-overwhelming feelings will allow. I can't hear it, just feel it. My only direct connection to this deep dark feeling. This place of rage, of anger, never healing. Never diminishing, just caged.
Locked up by little pale pills of powder. My bag of nails to hammer in each day to replace the ones the beast knocks out while banging belligerently on the wooden walls. It's big. A big, black angry beast. It scares me. Because it is me. The me no one truly sees, which needs to be let out for me to be free of it, but doing so could be the end of me.
And today, as I race among the red river, is the seventh day since I ran out of nails. It doesn't worry me at first. I've ran out before. But I always see soon enough just what that cage is for. And every time I see the beast again it's more angry than before. It doesn't like being locked up. Can you blame it? The crime of not being tame is all it's committed.
As it scares me I also welcome it in some weird way. I wonder if keeping part of myself in a cage feels better, or if I just do it for the best of those around me. Do I feel better, or do I just not really feel at all.
My small black box goes quiet, between two songs. The red river blurs through the tears I can't curb.
Concrete curb. Big, hard and grey. The only colour that can be trusted.
I put my foot down further, flying through the red river as the music rages again, and me with it. Somehow happily. A peaceful pile of broken clay pottery after it's knocked from the table.
I'm soaked in the music and my broken voice. Good enough to make me hope for greatness but not good enough to deliver more than people's praise and expectation. No peace. Just some release. Little pieces. A big black puzzle where nothing fits, even though I know I have all the bits.
I push my pedal down and elate with the feeling, with this sound, and the red river all around. I want to go faster but the river won't allow it. For the best I confess, wondering what I'd have done if free of restrictions.
Then a sudden move on my right. A momentary fright, followed by me gripping the wheel with white knuckled panic, bright flash of sparks and bucking panels. Grey concrete tears my black box open and throws it over, slowing it's fervour with a mighty strike that shows me all control is over.
My lover. My life, so blessed, the black beast forgotten in a moment without measure.
Flashing, black, white
All red.
Black.
