Stolen Expressions

I often envy people who are talented; people who can express themselves through music or art or written words.

As I listen to music, I hear a person’s soul and emotions dance upon the notes he sings or plays. It echoes through my being and I wish I could put my feelings into beautiful music; music that would bring tears to your eyes or make your heart soar with joy and hope. Music fills me and I wish I could move with it gracefully so the beauty inside flows out.

I see a painting and know that it is so much more than a pretty picture. It is the mystery of a person. It hides within its layers secrets of the past. The colors the artist chooses give me a glimpse of his personality. The style of the painting shows his passion and the images show what he loves and cares about. I wish I could paint from my heart, revealing who I am inside or who I want to be.

Words may seem like an obvious way of expressing yourself but there is a difference between writing words on a piece of paper and using words to create another world or describe your innermost being. I wish I could make my words flow poetically or use imagery to convey my deepest thoughts or at least sound like I know what I’m talking about.

There is so much trapped inside of me and I don’t know how to let it out. My music is just noise, my movements jerky and clumsy. My paintings are senseless splotches of color and my words are meaningless mumbo jumbo. My thoughts, feelings, emotions, everything I am swirl around inside me. Joy, sadness, love, hate, compassion, anger, contentment, frustration, calm, restlessness, passion, loneliness…all bottled up in such a small space that they get mixed up, pushing and pulling me from one emotion to another until I feel like I’ve been riding a roller coaster. There is no way for me to express myself, no outlet. I open my mouth but no sound comes out. My canvas is twice as thick as when I started from the layers of paint covering up the images that were not right. Words flee my brain as my pen hovers over the blank paper.

So I try to substitute my feelings with those of another. I listen and move to music that mimics what I feel, but it is not my music. I admire paintings that look like what I would want to paint, but it is not my art hiding my secrets and revealing who I am. I read poetry and books that portray close to my thoughts and who I want to be, but they are not my words. They are merely reflections of other people while my own remain locked away inside of me longing to be released.