death of a daydreamer

I have pages and pages of words, thoughts, and dreams. All written from my inner emptiness, written from my daydreams, or as I call them, the life I wish I were living. I find it to be very true that emotion turned into beautiful forms of art, whether using words, paint, welding together a Chevy and a Toyota, or singing out every last breath you have inside. All art comes from inside, something you long for, even if you have it.

All through my life, I have given life to my dreams, through words and with paint, because if I hadn't, I felt as if I would die. I couldn't live with myself knowing that they would go to waste. Now looking back, I have all these words, all these art forms hidden inside my home, under my bed, in boxes covered in tape. I gave life to my words, and then I killed them.

Now, I sit at night in front of a blank screen, wondering where all the words have gone. I am blank inside, so I question why I don't have inspiration to fill the blankness. I am hungry to write, to a point that I am full. A few weeks ago, while discussing life, and it's interesting twists and turns with my therapist, I came to realize that I am blank inside, but at the same time, have stopped daydreaming. She questioned, Do you feel that you have merged the two lives together, do you feel like you are now living the life you always dreamed of? I had no answer, just simply sat quiet through the rest of the session. The only thing since then that I have realized is I don't recognize myself anymore. I see a familiar face in the mirror, I hear a familiar voice speaking out, but inside my head, where I have spent so many years living, I feel like I am a complete stranger.