But why though?

I'm 35 now. My adult life has, so far, been mostly quite peaceful. A fact for which I am immeasurably grateful. I have a 9-5, I go about my day, engaging in my little pleasures and distractions that lend me a form of, albeit transient, peace of mind. I watch things that I (for the most part) enjoy, listen to music that massages my grey matter in just the right way or play games that I feel grant me temporary release from the unending droning of my subconscious thoughts. It's fine. It's alright.

It could be better but it could be much worse.

Recently however, something has changed. It happened slow, at first, then accelerated rapidly. A quiet hum started to appear in my brain. Much too low to consciously notice at first. But as time went on, the hum grew louder. It's not distracting, exactly, yet I seem to be unable to fully ignore it either. It's akin to a low, commanding non-voice somewhere underneath my forehead. Like eagerly biting deep into a freshly cut orange, it's juices running down my chin and feeling the soles of my feet suddenly tighten. It's the vibration of an idling engine on the side of a lonely road, wholly devoid of turns, leading straight into infinity under an unforgiving sky. It's strange. It's uncomfortable. I feel like I want to disregard it's existence. Keep going about my day as I have been. Continue to engage in my little pleasures and distractions. Go on to live as before and not think, never think. But the time has come to fumble around in the oppressive darkness my mind has plunged itself into for so long, feel around in it until I can find the dusty switch to turn the light behind my eyes back on, with a little, satisfying click. Echoing inside my head, unstoppably perpetuating itself, duplicating, deforming and reverberating, morphing and transforming into a mighty bellow, an all-consuming tempest before, once again, shrinking it's enormous noise to conform to but the size of a fingertip softly touching a key. Express. The non-voice commands. Express.

Now this description may or may not sound overly dramatic but please allow me some artistic flourishes and fancy embellishments. I'm a very tired and simple person these days and I would lie if I said it doesn't bring me a certain joy. And joy...joy is really the only reason I'm here. Doing this. The joy of expression. We all feel it. Lately, however, immense sums of money are being spent by immensely powerful people to take it away from us. To make us believe that human expression is no longer useful. That human expression is a waste of time. That instead of participating in a fruitless exercise like painting, writing, playing an instrument or creating anything at all, we better be doing our part to boost endless economic growth. Churn ourselves to dust for the gain of the people perpetuating our misery while soulless, mathematical approximations of the vague idea of sentience engage in the theft and regurgitation of all of our thoughts and the collective sum of human knowledge.

In many, myself, on some level, included, this has only fanned the flames of imagination and enkindled a kind of creative indulgence. Be weirder. Be louder. Shine brighter. Be less marketable. Be more difficult. Be imperfect. Be more human. Efforts to eradicate peoples ability to think critically, express themselves succinctly, draw conclusions independently, form opinions comprehensively and acquire knowledge organically are well underway. But with every voice that is added to the choir something new emerges. With every one that chooses to not remain silent and chooses to speak instead, from their own mind, we make our collective voice harder to contain. And that brings me joy. To express myself despite the world. To use my thoughts and my words. To think critically. To think loudly. Not because I'm of the impression that the things I have to say are particularly singular, important or even interesting. But to not succumb to the looming, all-encompassing apathy we find ourselves slowly slipping into.

Yet, admittedly, I'm also perpetuating my own pattern. I've always been a creative sort. Some of my earliest memories are being scolded by my parents for giving voice to said creative urges by putting crayon to wallpaper. And fabric. And tile. Through the years then, I have explored many creative outlets, many a path to convey my thoughts and feelings. Some more successful for myself than others. Music always was and has remained a large part of my life and continues to exhilarate, challenge and content me. An artist by profession, my relationship to visual art has grown...colder. More jaded. With each added layer of corporatization steadily increasing the distance between art and audience, my detachment from the creative aspects of my chosen craft has equally steadily progressed. I have, many years ago, explored writing in my mother tongue though these memories, overgrown with grief and regret as they are, bring me no happiness. I wrote mostly poetry then. Badly. Some thoughts about video games and other media I had enjoyed as well. Just as badly. I didn't know who I was. I didn't know what I liked, what I despised, what I wanted or looked for. Writing was something I always hoped I could do, one day. Yet despite my best efforts at the time, I never stuck with it. And it never stuck with me.

This then, is my attempt to mend my strained relationship to the word written by my own hand. I will be honest. I will be difficult. I will be vulnerable. I will be complicated and loud and weird and imperfect. It will be as irregular as it needs to be, yet I hope for it to be consistent. Subjects ranging from everything to nothing. It's diary without a lock. A scribble on the back of an old newspaper.

This...this is for me.

If you've read this far and my words have compelled you to consider coming along for the ride and see what we'll find...thank you. I sincerely appreciate it!