It is January and I Won't Write (+ a poem )

Creativity is finally forsaking me in the most beautiful time of year. Yeah. I love January.

A time for new beginnings—though lately, it feels harder and harder to put sentences together. There’s beauty in the frost, yet nothing pressing to say. Maybe because I’m obsessed with meditating on what I truly want from life. Maybe because writing—creating—feels impossible when done for someone else’s purpose, or just for the sake of posting.

Ice cream collection as proof of me being lazy and hungry.

In the past month, I’ve composed music I’m genuinely proud of. I’ll give myself that much. Like any stubborn force of nature, I’m drawn to composition—melodies buzzing in my mind like an insistent fly. That’s the heart of it: layering samples alone in my room, imagining another life, another set of emotions, a piano keysmashing that composes the right words to say.

The same edge I’ve been teetering on as I try to define who I am, what I want. Objectively, I’m doing well. I get by, regardless of how many material things I need or want. That’s me trying to sound cool, by the way. I’m filling the void with Bath and Body Works Aromatherapy Essential Oil even though I’ve never cared much for the latest trends. But I’m aching for new creativity, new blood, something real to sink my teeth into.

Here are some of my plants. And no, I don’t know what they’re called.

Wandering through my garden-thick home is wonderful and fulfilling—really! I have time to reflect on who I am and where I want to be. The problem? Some questions only find answers through experience. No one knows how to fight an orca with a ketchup bottle because no one has tried. Just like no one has tried being Brendon at 7 a.m., smashing together words in poetry exercises.

Ex-boyfriend. Former foster parents. The color yellow. The smell and coldfeel of standing outside, waiting for a place to open.

Loose ends lead to split strings. And when a writer unravels, they’ll always try—desperately—to weave the pieces back together. With or without metaphors.

Unfortunately, the answer is probably just to read more. And get some sleep.

there, at the water's edge, the air is orange:
even the scent of lemongrass and blinding vigor

carries far across the river. it's been gone
since the early hours of the day, somewhere

in a summer's moment, in spring air, the
blooming of maple flowers. the stiffness

of a flower's stubborn becoming-gold. and
the breeze, now sporadic at best, blossoms.

arcing above, at the tail end of the stream,
fruits hit the dirt while still sweet.

citrus-scent carries a pretense, every
fragrance of the west a renewed vigor

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