Anatomy of a Poem (2)

Anatomy of a Poem

cliché

This business of art is terrible yet wonderful, yet terrible most of the time.

inconsistency

I never knew that the process of creating, that of art or of writing, could be such a depressing thing. I feel that all of my efforts have been half-baked, studded with disappointment and little victories; that is, when I even effort enough. I have no project, no aim, no direction, which, despite my little victories of producing a photograph I like here, scribbling a little mood piece here (if it even qualifies), actually painting something there, has me feeling lost and frustrated in trying to create anything at all. I’m confident in myself enough to know that I probably do have what it takes to be better than the average person, but the only thing I’ve been good at is being inconsistent; I can’t even update this blog regularly. I can never put myself into anything wholeheartedly; I try, but then I stop, and I get frustrated because in my mind I know I want to do well but then I don’t, because I get disappointed before I even finish, and I don’t finish, and that disappoints me even more, and I am stuck in that cycle of disappointment and frustration and not being productive. I can’t even focus on one form, starting with paint then going into photography then dabbling in writing when I’m not even confident in one form to branch out into another. I feel silly sometimes for being in an org surrounded by people who create so consistently, when I feel that most of what I’ve done is shallow or flukes. I guess that deep inside, I am insecure and somewhat jealous, because everyone around me has something that is theirs; their work, their craft, their projects, and I have nothing to call my own. It’s gotten to the point where I often wonder, what’s the point? Will I be able to continue doing anything, painting, taking photographs or writing after I graduate? If so, what for? Will I be doing it for myself? Will I be doing it to be published? For a living? These admissions, my thoughts and efforts are shameful. Everything, in reality, is within reach; books on theories, pieces for viewing or reading, even support, but I can’t, I’m not getting anywhere, it must be me; what’s my problem? I am afraid of becoming someone who used to take photographs, used to paint, used to write but when I think about it I’ve never felt that I’ve actually created anything, to even merit a ‘used to’.