My Whirlwind of Creativity

Lately I’ve found less and less of a NEED to write, which is honestly a great thing. When I started this blog it came from a place of needing to verbalize a once silent part of me. Through the course of this self discovery I found my voice again, something that I learned to silence at a young age.

Healing myself and the generational traumas incurred into me was something I started to take seriously when I read “My Grandmother’s Hands” a few years ago. I followed the exercises and activities about reconnecting with yourself and did notice its help, but the best growth always came from self reflection from meditation, journaling, and other grounding activities.

That really planted the want to start a non-profit based in emotional understanding and sustainability. I never let go of the core message that I wanted to provide through everything that I produce but I needed to learn. I knew I was creative and ambitious but didn’t know what to do or where to go. There was no path for what my heart wanted.


So I made art, I enjoyed it and it was where I felt free. It gave a voice to the voiceless part of me. It forced what was in the shadows to be witnessed. And this is where my real journey with artistic therapy came to commence unknowingly. All based in commitment and discipline, day by day I worked to face my shadows and the shadows of those bred into me.

When I was younger I loved to draw, the pen and pencil let my mind wander in ways regular school life could never replicate. The few times I could paint in art class were always great but I never had enough practice to enjoy to its fullest. In the past year my shadows have been playing catch up, all the art I wanted to make when I was young that wasn’t expressed needed to get drained out of me.

So how did I do it? Every idea that came to me I followed through with patience and consistency. I laid the groundwork for all I wanted and followed through with my own plans.

My dedication to self was surrounded in darkness and uncertainty. Everyday I woke up and would question when would I feel the fruits of my labor? Why must I suffer? Why must I be tasked with isolation? Why is this the path set before me for freedom? I was stressed. My art was the only way out.

I was so dedicated to wanting to be free I enslaved myself to my own route. No matter what I would find discipline. I would push, I would create, I would follow through, and then onto the next task. I didn’t know if it was ever enough but I knew that I must keep creating.

My renaissance started with short form videos, which evolved into long form videos and writing, then photography and music videos, and now music. I see the next steps to be taken. A world of my own expression to be pressed out. Each form of expression harbors its own limits to the types of healing that it can press on to you.

In my reflections I came to verbalize and intellectualize how I felt culturally estranged and socially isolated but this didn’t heal me. It just made aware of the issue but this energetic tumor wasn’t being drained, I was only circling it.

Writing could do no more to further my understanding of self for this issue. At this same I started making music, everything that came out of me was unsettling. Even when I tried to make something that sounded happy it would inevitably turn into a dark brooding piece.

So it was clear to me I need to dive further into this dark world that is naturally pouring out of me. I got the ideas for an EP I wanted to make, 5 songs in this theme. I got started with the first song and it’s come out wonderfully but while I was crafting that I knew I needed to make something more. In two weeks I made I made 5 songs, a side project EP to what was supposed to be my side project EP.

The Hell.DEMO, each song song is unfinished exactly how I want. Just enough to be heard. While making it images of being in the bottom of the ocean came to me. My forgotten ancestors of the slave trade came to mind, giving them a voice to express their anguish and horror.

Enslaved to myself I tried to free the ghost of slavery stuck to my core. Ever since I was a teen the words “I am not a slave” have always rung in my head. Freedom is something that I will always fight for I suppose.

A rare emotional conversation with my grandfather reveals he has the same thinking. “I am not a slave” A generational need to be free at the core of our existence. But only some have been able to express it.

At what point is enough enough?