There’s this kind of soft, buzzing static in the back of my head lately. Not the poetic kind, not the romantic notion of "white noise" that people write songs about—just actual brain static. The kind that clings to your thoughts when you're trying to focus and everything keeps fracturing into smaller and smaller half-thoughts until you're left holding confetti instead of ideas.

I think part of it is how many projects I’ve got orbiting around me right now—some are just sparks (ha), others are smoldering, and a few are actual fires I keep forgetting to tend. There's something quietly maddening about having too many creative threads to follow and not enough hand-span to hold them all. It’s like trying to grab water. Ideas that felt sharp and urgent last week have already lost their heat, replaced by new ones that are somehow even less formed but way louder.

I've been looking at things lately—just objects, books, half-finished drawings, saved links, unread tabs—and trying to figure out whether I’m collecting inspiration or hoarding it. Whether the digital clutter is a toolbox or just a prettier kind of entropy. At a certain point, you have to ask: are you feeding your creativity or just drowning it in potential?

Also: my shelf of “to-read” TTRPG books is looking at me with that specific kind of judgment only inanimate objects can give. You know the one. It’s the same face your unopened mail makes.

Sometimes I wonder what kind of creature we’ve become, creatively. There’s this constant need to be producing something, anything, to be “in progress.” Resting feels illicit, like some kind of personal rebellion. But also, not resting? That just leads back to the static. So what do you even do with that?

Anyway. That’s where I’m at. A weird kind of liminal energy, suspended between "I should be making something" and "maybe I should burn it all down and make a shrine out of the ashes."

But hey, maybe the shrine would be pretty.