sheisintransit

[sheisintransit]

...and now for something a little more personal.

Hello again, if you’re here I guess you’re lost or you endeavor to witness the manic quarter life crisis I am currently having. 

Whichever the case-here’s the deal. For what feels like a long time now*, it has felt like somewhere back there, at some rest stop in the middle of the night or in a barstool in New Orleans, I lost the spark that used to make me feel like “me”. 

*I have been questioning my realistic relationship with time as of recent due to my new discovery of something called ‘Trauma Brain’.

When I was younger, I started writing every night on my Tumblr (that I probably thought was more popular than it actually was) after my shows on tour. I would write about people I met, how I was feeling, I guess I was decompressing.* 

*note; there were NOT as many easy ways to share your daily life back then, youth.

I had this wild fantasy I would write a book by the time I was 25, but I guess I was busy at SXSW that year. I do still have almost it’s entirety on a hard drive. Maybe I’ll plug it back in sometime.

I haven't quite figured out why I stopped, and even worse, I can’t figure out why I can't start again. 

I’ve sat and just poured glass after glass after glass of wine and listened to sad songs that used to tear me to pieces, flirted with strangers, hacked into my old photo bucket, done psychedelics, forced myself to watch old grainy cell phone videos from my past, everything. So, I bought a book by Rick Rubin and it told me I needed to try to be more open to The Source. The Source being where inspiration for art comes from. 

While I am still living on tour buses and swimming in polaroids taken across America, something feels...different. I guess I have kind of cut off my funnel from The Source. Fight and flight have shoved out my childlike sense of wonder and stacked their baggage so high it’s taking up a lot of the space in my brain. This has resulted in bullying myself daily with lengthy runs consisting of logging miles on the hamster wheel that is trying to get further in each memory I am desperately clinging to. 

I am not sure if the music and entertainment industry in general has done this to me, or the audience I was choosing to create art for. Perhaps I made up my audience and they turned on me in my head so I just stopped making art. I must’ve stopped writing because it was too “feelings” and I stopped “feelings” because after the outward flow was gone, the teeter totter didn't have anything left on the other side to stop it from just falling into the dirt. 

I guess the other side used to be the romanticizing I was doing when I used to hold myself accountable to a silly outlet. The person on the other side was the sticky, dripping, gooey hopefulness of what was behind the velvet curtain. The craving I used to have for that, I guess*. 

*Then again, sometimes I read back on my ramblings and I think I sound like a sociopathic Ke$ha in 2010.

I suppose I would like to hope that I can attract that metaphorical person again, the one who helped bounce the teeter totter back up when it hit the ground. If anything, I just want to try to chip away at something by blabbering some words down again, posting something a little more niche than the Insta content, and hopefully sparking what a sap I once was. 

I really don’t have the time to make videos or edit a TikTok these days, but I guess I can figure out how to at least update a blog. Wow. Vintage. 

Someone I love very much recently told me journaling was a good outlet for them. After many purchased and forgotten little notebooks, I decided this would be what I would do. I would make the great return to the Petri dish of emo and get back in touch with who I once was. And also tell some fun stories. And also possibly break down my identity crisis (just know I am picking on myself more than anyone else ever could). And maybe bring back Tumblr. 

Can we post nudes here again?