The past ten years have taken a toll on me, creatively. I used to login to my LiveJournal and weave extensive rants or explorations of thought a few times per week. Now I’m lucky if I draw from my personal well once a month.
Much of it has been because I’ve mellowed in temper. I don’t get worked up as much as I used to. I hope that’s because I’ve grown wiser in my time and thus become more comprehensive of my surroundings. I’ve learned to passively adapt rather than rage against the machine.
On the other hand, it could just as easily be depression that’s overcome me instead of wisdom. Either way, it’s cost me the fire inside my belly. I miss it.
Another thing that’s stifled my expression is sensitivity. Like my assumed wisdom, this is a double-edged sword; one whose virtue comes at a heavy price.
I sincerely don’t like offending people. Too many times have I told a joke that’s stirred up unintended controversy or hurt the feelings of someone whom I closely care. I began to censor myself; every word held under scrutiny over its consequences before passing through my lips or fingers. Now days, I just keep my damned mouth shut and everyone seems to win. Well, that is except for me, of course.
Just for reference: The majority of my sense of humor is based in two camps: Absurdity and exaggeration. My jokes will often express ideas or situations that are either completely out of left field or are natural, but are taken to such extremes that it’s ridiculous. I don’t exclude controversial topics from my humor because it’s absurd to put them in any context that’s appropriate. And of course, the construction of the joke is imperative.
All the same, my thoughts manage to piss off someone, somewhere, at some time.
What I need to remember is that there is a difference between offending people and hurting them. No matter what my opinion or musing, someone is going to take it personally. That is inevitable. I’m willing to make routine apologies, just so long as I remind myself that I don’t use my words to be vicious. If that makes me an apathetic privileged jerk, I’m happy to have at least achieved a personality worthy of description.
It sounds melodramatic, but I feel like I haven’t been allowed to be myself. But the only person who can give me that permission is myself.