I can’t help it.

 As I see my empire collapse, I can’t help but wonder why. Has my brain chemistry changed irreversibly? Have I lost touch with myself? 

It just doesn’t make sense. It feels like I’m in a cave alone with my desperation. Clawing for salvation but finding none. As I look at photographs that I should be proud of, I feel nothing but despair; my hands tremble at the thought of my work being mediocre. When I take a picture I can no longer feel my heart race. When I shoot beautiful landscapes, my mind blocks out thankfulness in favor of doubt. 

As I type and try to relate my life to those around me, I can’t help but feel my pleas will fall on deaf ears. As I pour my heart out to the public, I can no longer feel confident in my mission. As my words get stuck at the back of my throat, I can’t avoid feeling like a tree without a top. Like I’ve reached the max of my potential and that no matter how much I try to grow, I will remain on the same plane: plateaued.

Jesus Christ, what is an author who can no longer reach his audience? Who am I if I can no longer analyze my work? While I’ve always had problems when differentiating my good works from my exceptional ones; I no longer feel confident in my own judgment. 

From a plethora of photos I took on a trip to Glacier this sad sapling that I documented on a whim was the most popular in my friend group. Even my mentors such as my Journalism teacher, Ms. Bathje, unanimously agree that this is the best photo from the collection. And despite how much I try to wrap my brain around what makes this photo so special, I can’t help but feel angst in everything else I do.

If I

as an award-winning photojournalist

 can no longer gauge the value of my own work, then what else am I blind to? How many of my skills have I let die around me? While I currently can’t see the effect of their rotting carcases, I can still sense the dread in the air. 

Hell, even as I reflect on my past works I can’t help but imagine that my skills were never on a high horse. The more I review my past photos with their commentary, the more clarity I gain on the high horse my ego rode. As I lay in the pits of my creativity with the spirits of my past goals around me, I don’t just feel like a fraud. I feel myself becoming an insult to my teachers, those who went out of their way to help me find mine. 

In the end, I can’t say that I am proud of my work. But out of respect for my mentors, I can’t say that I failed. Instead, I think I just ran my course. Like an orange left to its own devices I too have reached my expiration date. While my writing may be at its rope I think there is value in its failure. Like the innocent roadkill on the side of a busy interstate, I hope my passion’s death can be a warning to others.