Lonely Strangers

Curse of Creativity

Writer Notice: Sometimes there will be a video (music most likely) at the top, please do not watch it until you have read the story, the music serves the purpose of bringing in the mood I was thinking when I wrote that piece. If anything, while the music plays (after you read), reflect, think, and comment about what I wrote. Thanks in advance!

People say I can draw, people say that I can write and rap, they say that everything I make has this unique quality that can convey my emotions. Usually, that emotion is only sadness, a sort of gloomy blur of the lenses I see the world in. I don't know if they think I'm ok. Maybe they don't see that I need help, that my books, songs, and my art collections, are actually pieces of me, and my story. They don't know that I watch the same movie on replay for hours because I'm lost. They don't know that before an interview I scratch myself, over and over again, then numb my bottled up emotions with drugs.

         When I am in an interview, I think that when I tell them my drug addiction, my loneliness, and confusion, they see it as me being the character of my own story. Nobody is trying to help me. I don't want anyone to. The moment I'm able to cure this curse of creativity that came from my problems, addictions, and pain, that's when my music is going to be different. The way I brush on the canvas is going to change and nobody is going to say I'm a genius anymore. My loyal readers will stop reading my books, they will take a step behind and ask what happen?

     At some point in my life, writing, music, and making art were just pastimes for me to get rid of these thoughts. Now I have label deals, now I have fans and people who look up to me because of my outcry of depression.  I tell the world all the time how I feel, hundreds of thousands, millions of people know my name, but why don't they know that I need help? I want to be happy. I want to retire from everything soon, they say that I am blessed. Anyone would want to be in my position, there are people with no homes, with no food on the table, yet how could I retire because I'm not happy? Aren't I suppose to be happy now?

    I was born in the projects. Coming from a black home, we had to do anything to make ends meet. My Mom made me work as soon as I graduated to pay for the rent and take care of my family, going to college wasn't an option.  My father was never around until I blew up, and my older brothers died through gang violence when I was young. When I was roughly 20  she took all that I had and kicked me out because of my drug addiction. I lived through some pretty dark times, but gangs became like my second family, and so after killing members of other gangs, I got into a case. I sold out everyone that was involved,  shifted the blame, and survived the grueling interrogations. Somehow I got out free, while my best friend and other gang members went to jail for life.

       Afterward, I changed my name and moved to another state. I dyed my hair, got my teeth bleached, and did everything to fade the numerous gang tattoos along my body. I told myself that I was going to start a new life, one that wouldn't risk me going to jail. Since then I began to write, draw and make music. It was supposed to be a substitute for the drugs or at least something that would stop me from taking them when I felt the urge. I didn't expect to blow up. People said I was talented, companies sought me out and as the money came in I knew I couldn't stop, at the time I didn't know any better, the fans and fame I got, made it seem like everything was going to be ok. I kept searching for new deals, contracts and labels to the point that,  my old associates knew who I was. They are still looking for me. They want to kill me.

    Money protects me from being caught by them. I live in a rich neighborhood, now I have bodyguards, and guard dogs, I thought it was enough protection until a group of gang members caught me lacking at the airport. My guards were off duty, so I was alone. They put a gun on my back and demanded ransom, I, of course, gave them the money that's why I'm still here today. If I were to retire they are definitely going to find me and get whatever money they can, especially the family I cut off when I started this new life. If I killed them or got involved with gangs again, it would only lead to a continuous cycle that would ultimately lead to my death.

     I'm happy. I'm really happy. I'm still alive, with money, fame, and women, there is nothing I don't have and I can get whatever I want. But why do I want to stop? Nothing feels right, it's like I'm exploiting my own problems instead of fixing them. Everyone will leave, and abandon me when they see the real me, the happy me, when I am out of the rut, this sadness that made my content unique will turn numb. If I want to live, then I must keep this curse, this curse of my own creativity. That way I won't go back to the old me, even if my fans don't know or want to help me get better, that's ok, it's my curse after all.

Writer's Note:  Vote, follow, comment, and share, while you listen to the music at the top. I wrote this thinking about artist like Juice Wrld, lil peep, and Mac Miller, influencers tell how they feel, they want help, but sometimes nobody is willing to understand them or think it's just the lifestyle that they are living. We should help each other so our legends aren't on t-shirts. Facts.