I have a little guitar that I like to twang on when I am feeling low and confused about an emotion or a situation in life. I pick up the guitar, a piece of a paper, and a pen READY to write the next 90’s version of something heart felt. Something that can strike a chord with another human being — a universal chord, that is. That damn chord I tend to obsess about when I write in general. The problem is, I just focus on writing something true…something REAL. You know, LET IT BE…and it will come out. I know this. Still, I obsess.
So I sit in my sister’s room pondering about life, I let a tear drip down my chubby chin, I spill some beer on her carpet and say,”For the homies,” in hopes that I may get some inspiration. All I want is a chord, or a phrase, heck — a word! Nothing.
It hurts. It hurts when nothing comes out because sometimes the truth is, and it hurts to admit this, sometimes I don’t know how to deal with my emotions other than by writing them out. Sometimes, I don’t know how to verbalize what I feel. The people I get upset with and try to talk to end up hearing something like this:
“Well, you know, I just feel….you know that feeling you get when you’re in a roller coaster, and your stomach feels all like — WHAT THE FAH! And then, after the drop of death, you realize things could be worse, and you survived? And you’re like, ‘Damn, I don’t know if I want to pretend to die again,’ but then the next falls aren’t as bad as the first one? And you start having fun — by not having fun? I mean, YOU start having fun when you pretend to die, but it’s bad for you?—Wait, no, that’s a bad analogy. Okay, let me start over, so you’re in a graveyard…”
Yeah, that’s pretty much how my brain tries to put words together when I get in an argument and talk out loud (Side note: this is why I would be a terrible lawyer mom and dad, so stop dropping the hints).
I rely on writing to express those things that scare me. When I can’t write, however, I feel absolutely lost. My and my little guitar, we don’t know where to go. In the end, it still doesn’t matter. I have to blow off some steam, so I just end up writing a song about my boyfriend eating that last slice of pizza and how that makes me sad. Meh. At least it’s better than hearing me stutter through a conversation.