They’re everywhere. Lexical gaps, I mean. Take right now for instance, there isn’t a word for what I’m currently feeling. Unless of course there is a word for the feeling musicians sometimes get, where they suddenly smash their guitars or pull the keys out of their pianos; where they set fire to all their sheet music and delete every last recording of every last song they’ve ever written. It’s the same with writers that, in a tangle of emotion, decide to backspace a 500 hundred page novel, or rip a hardcopy piece of writing to shreds. Or filmmakers that randomly decide to snap their DVDs in half.
It’s a kind of melancholy sadness mixed with frustration and anger and a certain tinge of inferiority complex, but not exactly.
What is the point of my music, and where do I find it, if it’s out there?
What is the point?
Is there even one?
I enjoy it, yes. But what purpose does it serve, if it’s never heard by anyone?
I enjoy it, yes. But I’m constantly told that I’m spending too much time on it, and I kind of know that I am.
I enjoy it, yes. But lately, I’m coming to find that every time I play something, or I sing a melody, it comes with this nagging “someone out there does this better than you” feeling. And to all those people that tell me, “oh no you sing really well”, I have this undeniable hunch that they’re really thinking, “you’re alright, I can do this better than you though.”
I feel like my slice of random happiness is turning into something morbidly unhealthy for me.
And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it.