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Creativity When Depressed?


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And my tree of pain will flourish

I'll take care of its leaves.

Protectively.

Watering. So much it requires

so much it needs.

Blooms going to be admired

fruits to be eaten.

Delicious apricots.

The longer the better. And how long?

Depends on my receptors of the sensitivity.

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"Enough happiness to keep you sweet,

Enough trials to keep you strong,

Enough sorrow to keep you human,

Enough hope to keep you happy,

Enough failure to keep you humble,

Enough success to keep you eager,

Enough wealth to meet your needs,

Enough enthusiasm to look forward,

Enough friends to give you comfort,

Enough faith to banish depression,

Enough determination to make each day better than yesterday.

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I'm sorry world. 

I'm sorry for not being good enough to those who love me. 

I'm sorry I'm unable to change and shake these sins. 

 

I'll wash myself clean until the water is pure. 

And even when that happens... I'll call out. 

Wishing I didn't feel this way. 

 

I don't deserve to be happy, 

because in the end of the day I have so much repentance. 

You can't change me, or save me. 

 

Thank you world for treating me with kindness when you did. 

But stop wasting your energy on someone who's lost. 

I don't want to be found. 

Edited by Tranquilityascend
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Stop signs clear to me now

well, I was always a bit

lost in traffic lights

and couldn't focus

on red or green.

Yellow between and

chaos in my lungs

kept me from respecting

all traffic signs.

And a result...

Bothering some drivers.

At a crossroad.

Was not intentional...

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This structure, turns grey,

Like the moon, crumbles and decays,

Oxygen turns it blue to red,

Where will my poor atoms go?

Hell walk, so cold,

So far from the God of light,

Mercy, he says it doesn't feel right,

Take what they love and watch them die,

Skin filled with sin, hour glass redemption,

Disconnection, my life's description,

I tried so hard to not lose the ones I've lost,

But where are they now?

Billions, can't imagine,

How I came to be,

The birds will peck my eternal tree,

But at least I won't have a heart,

Stick the roses, with the box in the ground,

Need the thorns to eat,

Counting plagues and out of breath,

Where do the insects discuss politics?

Unbecoming, dissolvement,

Illusion past or no involvement,

Pretend to weep but the gas melts us away.

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This structure, turns grey,

Like the moon, crumbles and decays,

Oxygen turns it blue to red,

Where will my poor atoms go?

Hell walk, so cold,

So far from the God of light,

Mercy, he says it doesn't feel right,

Take what they love and watch them die,

Skin filled with sin, hour glass redemption,

Disconnection, my life's description,

I tried so hard to not lose the ones I've lost,

But where are they now?

Billions, can't imagine,

How I came to be,

The birds will peck my eternal tree,

But at least I won't have a heart,

Stick the roses, with the box in the ground,

Need the thorns to eat,

Counting plagues and out of breath,

Where do the insects discuss politics?

Unbecoming, dissolvement,

Illusion past or no involvement,

Pretend to weep but the gas melts us away.

 

glfinding: Welcome to the forums first of all and to the creativity thread.  What you have written is incredibly deep. beautifully written.  Please continue to write and share with us if you feel comfortable.  Sometimes creative interests like writing, painting, sculpture and more can all be a great way to express how we feel.  Sometimes one's best work is done by people suffering with depression.  I've seen it  many times in this thread.  Welcome again!

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For a lot of people depression brings criativity, unfortunatelly, it doesn't work for me. I need to be excited to be creative. I used to write stories, but how am I supossed to imagine new characters and situations if I find everything boring and uninteresting? I know every writer works in a different manner, but I must be 'in love' with what and who I'm writing about.

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God blows his smoke,

In my mirror,

Only in darkness,

Does it become clearer,

Dear Jesus,

Why do the birds chirp?

Sacrifice kitty cats under the lunar,

But not in your name,

The Choir of Angels,

Is getting thinner,

I look to the sky,

Sacrament is so bitter,

The reaper of death,

Isn't so grim,

On lists,

Should be everyone's friend,

Engulfed in her wings,

Our skeletons obey,

Saints watch me,

As the sun will never set today.

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For a lot of people depression brings criativity, unfortunatelly, it doesn't work for me. I need to be excited to be creative. I used to write stories, but how am I supossed to imagine new characters and situations if I find everything boring and uninteresting? I know every writer works in a different manner, but I must be 'in love' with what and who I'm writing about.

 

It's a weird balance for me. At a certain point depression will crush under it's weight and I'm unable to motivate myself to do anything, let alone be creative... but at the same time, during those brief periods where I DO feel OK and content (longest consecutive period of "contentment" was about a month or so in length) I don't feel like I have anything interesting or meaningful to write about.

 

Somewhere in the middle though, more around my "standard" level of depression, I hit my balance between the two. For me, it's not so much loving what I write as much as it is feeling connected and believing in the emotional content of what I write. For example, I hate horror movies... I don't like excessive violence... and 90% the scripts I've written or have fleshed out ideas for are horror genre. When I'm depressed I understand and feel connected to fear, misery, pain, the dark places human beings can take themselves/other people... which naturally lends itself well to horror/thriller type stuff. That and I have an odd affinity toward monsters/creatures/cryptozoology stuff (not that I think they exist).

 

Anyway, like you said everyone has a different method. Was interesting to see your side of what inspires you to write.

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Walking on a treadmill going nowhere.

 

Speaking a thousand words and no one hears.

 

Yearning for understanding and validation, but 

never taken seriously.

 

Feeling invisible, watching the world pass by

but you don't belong.

 

Giving and volunteering to help people

in need, and to help save the planet

and endangered animals, but 

friends frown upon it.

 

Friends not keeping in touch,

either taking advantage of my 

vulnerable state, or plain 

scared of sadness that can't be controlled,

only masked.

 

Strangers are my friends now.  People

who know nothing about me except the 

present me.  Not bringing up my mistakes

but helping me forget them.

 

There are so many things 

in my life I regret.  Things I wish to forget 

but many times being reminded by

vengeful friends or family.

 

But with all of this taken in consideration,

I am grateful for the blessings bestowed

on me.  

 

A wonderful career with travel,

financially stable, living in a 

wonderful home.  And a great

therapist and a great team

of doctors.

 

But even though being thankful,

I am not feeling it.  Not feeling or 

seeing the joy, only a chalk board

with a bunch of mindless numbers.

 

I'm tired, so tired of feeling sad

and not knowing why.  I hope

with all my heart we will find 

the answer. I wish this for

all of us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tired, oh so tired, of  being sad, or 

faking I'm not.

Edited by highanxiety
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This one sucks.  I can't show most of my writings.  It would just get blurred everywhere.  I should write something today, haven't in a while.

 

So close to the bottom,

The worms have their whispers,

Can't trust the alphabet,

Her promises were like licking honey off of dirt,

Now forever has begun,

Burn for eternity for what I have done,

My bones will snap falling off the leaf,

Sharpen them with my teeth,

A physical million miles an hour,

But I'm not chained to your organic light,

Now that I've finally decided to die,

I have arrived at the endless tide,

Dislocation of unwanted matter,

Foregone to the only wicked spire,

Forgot to evolve so I throw up black muck,

I just needed a lot of help,

My loved ones hurt me the most,

Now their gone and I'm ghost,

Promise that I could sliver so far away,

If you could just beat me up,

Travel without sound direction,

Infamous are the tears I have left in my wake,

To my first born son I pass the pain onto you,

Grand gesture of calamity to the living truth.

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There i sat looking out at the horizon my eyes drawn to the,ascending hues of color,noting the emptiness of space.no one around but myself,sitting there thinking about the infintie amount of exitsence and relativity of everything.How it all exists in the mind,how the only interperation of reality we ever know is our own,how trapped and confined we are by the confines of the brain,there are no objective truths and nothing that can be proven and nothing that can be disproven just the manfestion of the art of the mind.I pondered my reasearch and its meaning,how it has led me to become a creator of exietence value and meaning.i grasped my forehead attempting to remeber who I was or where I was and had nothing but the current moment i was in,i Relased my head and looked up in frustration ,still nothing i got up to walk around aimelessley there were meadows in every direction I began to walk forward not knowing why, up to a hill that lay in the distance.Did i exist does anything exist who are we what,do our senses show ous.my thoughts raced as i approached the hill,tormenting me with existenial dread and horror.i began to walk up the hill when ,while climbing to the top of the hill i felt a resitance in one of my foot steps.i looked down towards my foot and found a branch that protruded from the ground in a most peciular fashion.i was drawn to it by a strange feeling of dejavu,i instively grasped and pulled it,to my amazment a pathway was revaled as the grass descended into the ground weaving in and out of the surface to reaveal a door that rested upon the ground.
i proceeded slowly down the steps into the dark concrete abyss that was sprawled out before me each step i took ,my heart began to palpitate faster ,once I reached the bottom of my descent i paused to gaze around the room  it was lit by  red leds that lined the perimeter,there were computers that rested near the walls that were destroyed beyond recognition,  a wall protruded in the center of the room with a bed overturned with notes and papers sprawled all over it.Strange foreign writing layered every inch of the room,odd symbols and incomprehensible images......where was I,and more importantly what was I,a sense of dread permeated my very being as my eyes darted around the room ,trying to latch on to clues so my mind could conjure up an explanation of what I was seeing and what was happening to me.
I paused for a moment to soak in the abursitidy of the whole scene,my mind began to wander again who was I ,where was I,when was do I exist ,my mind was simply blank I could recognize objects,come up with judgements,could feel, but nothing else.Where was i going where have I been,i walked through a door on the far side of the room,the floor began melting into my legs,to reveal a broken scene of a incomprehensible nature,The floor was gone emptied out from reality,i turn around rapidly and the door was gone,i tried with all i could to make sense of what was happening to me,but it was a exercise in futilty.i heard laughter every where i looked around and the walls were all laughing at me,my heart began to paplatate faster,the door was gone,i was trapped.The laugheter howled i walked forward the room was narrow each section of the wall was a transluent blue ,hundreds of faces with there eyes focused on me laughing,i collapsed to the floor try to wrap my head around it all.why were they laughing,where I am i who am i echoed through my mind. i layed on the abyss that layed below me and started to laugh manically,it was all so funny.the walls contiuned with there chrous and i joined them .HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAH............................HAAHAHAHHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA......hahahahah...hahha...........,hours passed and my laughter recessed back to a state of confusion what was so funny i could put not finger on it.I got up and contiuned my trek down the corridor.was there a way out of this place.
The chours of the walls continued I became numb to their tune after  a while I walked thru the labyrinth with no way out insight In a utter daze.One of the mouths in the wall suddenly stopped laughing,I stared in disbelief and slowly approached the opening,I peared in,and saw nothing, intrigued and with relief that I found way out of my madness.I began crawling thru the mouth.I was hesitant at first,but I felt compleled  to continue on,I kept truging along,there was no light,I had no direction.I could hear the laughter fade away as I contiuned in the dark,as the laughter faded a sense of doom washed over me,beneath my hands and knees I felt a cold unexplainable texture,one of the most horrfic things I had felt,it can only be described as,that feeeling you have when hair stands on the back of your neck.As I advanced forward,I tried to ground myself,I blind started to take in my enviorment using a sense of touch.I raised my hands pushing out in a circle I felt,what can only be described as a series of triangular flesh ovals,that had a texture that mirrored the floor.The laughter began to subside,a dead silence washed over the room.

 

This is a part of my horror book im writing,its a great way for me to express the most sick and deprived parts of my subconsious lol I didn,t proof read at all yet im to lazy tonight.

Edited by scienceguy
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Streams pulling you down.

Down the ocean.

Waves of peaceful night.

Waters of a new found light.

Drops carrying the smile.

They're not here to hurt you.

Whales moving. Diving.

Hire a boat, forget mourning.

Edited by Mikayla
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I'm not productive, outgoing or even really here when I'm like this. The sad part is even my so called family has always told me your not fit to be around unless your drinking and later in life on something and that's the hardest part about using. I miss who I use to be and it's always buried inside and when I can get the right chemicals in my brain I feel free again. Not free to parrty and frolicking but free to just feel normal and smile and talk to people and want to go for a walk.

Because of this I receive a death sentence. Have everything or everyone's love that ever meant anything to me striped and taken from me. I'm sure thew are those seeing this with a grin right now and could. Care less.

I don't either anymore.

Here I am. Attack and pick what's left apart. There's not enough left of my self to recognize anyways. Proficient at your job I'll say. Pat on the back. Just hurry and put an end to this tragedy.

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For a lot of people depression brings criativity, unfortunatelly, it doesn't work for me. I need to be excited to be creative. I used to write stories, but how am I supossed to imagine new characters and situations if I find everything boring and uninteresting? I know every writer works in a different manner, but I must be 'in love' with what and who I'm writing about.

 

It's a weird balance for me. At a certain point depression will crush under it's weight and I'm unable to motivate myself to do anything, let alone be creative... but at the same time, during those brief periods where I DO feel OK and content (longest consecutive period of "contentment" was about a month or so in length) I don't feel like I have anything interesting or meaningful to write about.

 

Somewhere in the middle though, more around my "standard" level of depression, I hit my balance between the two. For me, it's not so much loving what I write as much as it is feeling connected and believing in the emotional content of what I write. For example, I hate horror movies... I don't like excessive violence... and 90% the scripts I've written or have fleshed out ideas for are horror genre. When I'm depressed I understand and feel connected to fear, misery, pain, the dark places human beings can take themselves/other people... which naturally lends itself well to horror/thriller type stuff. That and I have an odd affinity toward monsters/creatures/cryptozoology stuff (not that I think they exist).

 

Anyway, like you said everyone has a different method. Was interesting to see your side of what inspires you to write.

 

I can relate to this a bit but feel like I write my best when im extremely depressed or when i want to write a story that makes people question themselves or the values everyone was taught to believe in,I guess when im not depressed even when I feel happy I want to write stories that express the insignificance of it all and how its funny, how seriously people take life.If I told people close to me what my stories mean or what I want them to mean.They might think im nuts,but the only reason I like to write is to **** with myself and my own mind.I might try to finish a novel one day and see if anyone would want to read it,

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Quite a few new faces here since I visited last.... that's what I get for staying away for so long! 

:hugs:

Welcome to grimpilgrim, mansin19, anita123, griffindoor, glfinding, darklotus, sandyc, and shoncc.

It's great to read what you have written. I hope writing helps you guys as much as it helps me.

:hugs:  Keep up the good work!

 

I uncovered this while cleaning in the closet. I wrote it in the late 1990's, and it's a rough draft, so try not to laugh too hard.

 

'Warrior Child'

Exhausted, you shrug off your armor

and bathe in the pools below while

the enemy gathers silently on the

hilltops all around, 

sliding into the water beside you

like patient crocodiles.

 

Silently, I put my hand on my weapon and

scan the horizon and the impending dusk.

beckoning you to prepare for battle.

You dismiss my warnings with a laugh.

Thinking you have fought the last great battle

and can claim the ground that is drenched in your blood.

 

Do you not see that the real battle has yet to come?

The enemy has watched you fight

and has witnessed the birth of a great warrior -

do you think the enemy will allow you to

grow and learn, unfettered?

 

My child, you have not yet begun to fight!

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I am interested in creativity as an outlet for emotional expression. There is no other way for me to express myself, so I turn to music, art and occasionally writing. I want to take what is trapped inside of me and release it into the world. I feel like I am carrying an insurmountable amount of weight that is slowly crushing me to death. "I have no mouth, and I must scream."

 

However, all of my attempts at "screaming" have failed. I hate my music and my art. I hate my writing more than anything. I can't even begin to understand myself. I try to write and the words that form before me are fake and empty. I do not see myself in these words, and yet I am chained to them. The more I write the more I grow to hate myself. The more I hate myself the less I write. This is true with all other activities as well. Eventually I realize that it's futile to even try. Something I used to find solace in is once again falling away from me. What's left if I cannot successfully express myself in any way, shape or form? I'll continue to exist in a state of perpetual helplessness. "Buried above ground." 

 

I watch the people open their mouths. Words come out. I observe this action and realize that though they speak, they never actually communicate. Empty words, empty actions, empty people, empty places, empty faces, empty gods, empty hells, empty heavens, EMPTY, it is all just empty. I cannot accept this. I am on the outside, and the inside is on the outside. There is no inside. We pull away layer after layer, and at what point do we hit the center? I don't want to partake in any of it. The outside, the inside, the nothing, the everything, all of it. I would not wish it empty or full. I would not paint my feelings on its canvas because I cannot accept the finality of its form. There is no solution, I am unnatural and broken by definition. So that's my dilemma. I am a broken human being. Why should I write what I feel, why should I draw what I see, why should I play my songs and open myself up to others? The hole is too large to fill. I have an unscratchable itch. The hole extends beyond this world and into countless others, past the barriers of comprehension. No matter how hard I try, I cannot show the contents of these worlds to other people. I am buried down here with them, never to breathe fresh air again. 

 

Once again, I hate everything I write. I hate it all. Every last word. Everything I write winds up being suffocatingly miserable. I don't see the point in that. It just adds more weight and stress, the exact opposite of my intention. I'd be better off never expressing myself again. There's no point in someone like me being 'creative.' I am always depressed so I'm not sure if it'd be any different. I see myself as depression itself, I don't have an identity or personality. 

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We shake the ground and scratch your walls. Listen, we tell you all the time. We bang on the glass. Why can't you hear. None of us have to suffer or die. Just two sides. No better than the other. Have you played a part? Are you blameless? I don't think so.

You judge. You will be judged. Wake Up! Why do we do the things we do? Why do you? It could all be brilliant or all Hell could break loose for us all. Don't invade our home. We will shake you awake.

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