When creativity dies

Why do we create?

A question that has been asked as far back as humanity can remember.

There is not one answer, as it comes down to the individual, but what if there's more?

More that we can't see, that we can't understand. Perhaps trying to find the answer, an answer, is foolish.

I look around and all I see is others that create to share, create to express, cope, escape or simply because they want to. And all are much, much more creative than myself.

Ideas and images run through my head, but I can never make them true. Upon creation, everything feels thrown together, lifeless, almost like it hates me for bringing it to life. As if I am Frankenstein and the ideas are my monster.

When I was young, before the world tarnished me, I would create because I wanted to. And that was enough. But now, no matter the concept or hobby, doing it for my own enjoyment is uncomfortable, almost wrong. I hate feeling like there needs to be a practical reason behind everything I do.

I long to create, but something holds me back. I want to share, but also want to be left alone.

I want to express, but there's no room in the world for that.

It's a double edged sword and I don't know if the balancing act is worth it, but I'll be disappointed in myself if I don't. Things used to stem from joy, now it stems from pain. Everything I do carries a thin veil of pain, almost as if it's coming from the universe itself.

The world needs more creativity....perhaps kinder creativity even. But the world doesn't deserve it, hasn't earned it, no longer cares about it. It cries out for stories, but burns them upon reception. Hold up a mirror and instead of looking at the reflection, it throws a fist and the mirror shatters.

I don't know what to do, I don't know why I create, I don't even know if I want to anymore. And it hurts.

So I escape. Escape into others creativity because I dislike my own no matter what I do.

And other's stories justify the pain I feel better than I ever could. I don't stay awake wishing Resident Evil or a medieval, war torn fantasy land was real because I think it would be better or that I would be enough of a badass to survive. I do it because in those worlds, in those circumstances, the pain felt makes sense, it's justified in being real.

My pain, always disproportionate to the cause, seemingly, has never felt safe, justified, logical or sensible.

In those other worlds, it would. And maybe my soul wouldn't be so tired, maybe I'd have some courage and maybe, just maybe, I would matter to someone.

I don't know what to do, I don't know where to go. My screams are silent, the tears invisible. The pain stays inside, where else can it go?

What does one do when the spirit of creativity itself becomes depressed?