They call her the “mad scientist.”
“There’s a disturbance in the Force,” she says. “I can’t figure it out but lately I’ve been going through that cycle again.”
She thought she was good already. She has work, she’s healthy, she has awesome friends, she has a roof over her head and a car… But see, there’s always always something that’s poking at her. Like an itch that needs to be scratched, a thirst that needs to be quenched, a dance that needs to be executed… A voice that needs to be SHOUTED.
So, she convinces herself that she’s excused to feel this cause, truth be told, she is a creative. She creates. And everyone in the creative realm knows that there’s always a very thin line between creating and holding on to your sanity, and self-destruction is sometimes a means to a redeeming end. But she read somewhere that artists have work ethics too. Picasso was the perfect model. “Okay, then call me undisciplined,” she said. “Whatever happened to that endless buzz we all used to get high on? Those daisy days when we’d just bury ourselves in endless musings or freewriting, without the rules and the careful inclusion expletives. Who’s the buzz kill?”
She is. He is. They are. We are. You are.
I am.
Yes, that’s it. I long for my coffee-stained journals and my camera. I have been too caught up with “living” and “the daily grind” I’ve forgotten my other self. The part of me that wants to capture joys and sorrows, the spirited frenzies and celebrations, the mundane but deep observations of everyday life – I want them immortalized in the ethereal stillness of a snapshot, and later on translated in words or vice-versa.
They call her the mad scientist and she is (me).
I miss my lab.
And my mind plays hopscotch 