The Maker's Elegy

We Make to Stay Alive...

Dec 04, 2024

Transcript

My life is messy but fun!

Vibrant, even.

The truth is, I've created this beautiful chaos all by myself.

I tend to make things harder than necessary. What I once saw as a weakness—this tendency to overcomplicate—I now embrace as being “spiritually detailed.”
[Or, what experts have often called— neurodivergent]

When I was little, I would stare out my window at the frozen corn fields and daydream about how I could change the world—how I could fill it with magic and beauty. I dreamt of having an entire section of a bookstore devoted to all the books I wrote.

I used to write short stories about all sorts of things. I would paint and collage illustrations to accompany my stories. My family would ask me if I wanted to be an author.

I didn't want to just be an author—I wanted to be a painter, a crocheter, a sculptor, a world traveler. I wanted to be a maker.

I didn't know that was what I was called back then, but I'm leaning into it now.

I like to call myself a ‘positivity engineer’ and a ‘dream architect.’

I like to make the internet a more positive, warm, and fuzzy place to be. Find connection in the pixels. Find love in the code.

We are the makers, the beings of creation

I spent a while and wrote something called "The Maker's Elegy" and posted it to Instagram in a slide format.

I don't have a large following there, and it ~~didn’t receive many likes~~ because that type of post might be too esoteric for that space. Still, it needed to be shared.

I can't really explain why, but, it had to be!!! So I did it anyway!!! Screw the algo.

Creativity has poured out of me since I was young. I've had to hold it back and figure out the right times to channel it, but now seems the right time to let go. To live in that liminal space of oversharing and uncertainty. I'm ready to be even more vulnerable than ever before. Maybe it's because the cold weather makes my bones hurt and my lips chapped that reminds me of the cold corn fields of my youth. the wind would whip against my house at night, like a ice banshee. I would have a hard time falling asleep. so I would get out my pen and paper and I would sketch and doodle. shapes flowed out of me. I've grown frustrated with never seeing what I want to see in the mainstream media. I'm okay with being subculture. Anarchist. Subversive. I make because I need to. I make to stay alive.

I believe life consists of fleeting moments that slip away too easily. Without artists creating both tangible and intangible works—those precious human memories that remind us of our cosmic origins—we would have no culture. Instead, we'd merely echo the same tired ideas, never daring to challenge the status quo or make waves.

It's important to note that putting yourself out there repeatedly isn't easy. I've had a Patreon, LiveJournal, Xanga, MySpace, multiple Tumblrs—and what I've found is that when I'm authentically sharing my creative struggles and battles, that's when I experience the most positive breakthroughs. That’s why I started this Substack. This community of souls.

What do you think? I'd love to know. (Comment or reply to this message)

I believe in this economy of creativity—an unspoken exchange that spreads light and connects us all like an artist's circuit board.

Death is always around the corner, and if I were to die today, I know my online legacy would be meaningful. But I want more—I want to raise everyone's vibrations, help others build their emotional intelligence, and bring happiness and peace to the world. I hope this contributes to that, even a little bit.

The Maker’s Elegy:

We are the makers. But we are not machines.

Modern technology may have rewired our lives, but it has not erased the essence of what we are. We were here before the algorithm, before glass and steel. We were born from the soil, birthed by necessity and nurtured by creativity. Our lineage is in the hum of the forge, the whirr of a spinning wheel, the careful pulling of thread, and the silent breath of intent. The crumple of paper. The ink overflowing. The paint drying. That’s all us.

Long before technology became our master and our muse, we were here—crafting from the earth and the stars, telling stories with the stroke of a chisel in stone, the warmth of our touch.

We are not valued by our output, nor measured by the hours we spend crafting. We are more than the sum of our production. We make with rage, with grief, with ecstasy, with pleasure. Creation is not always about precision or perfection—it is an expression of all that we are, from our darkest sorrows to our highest highs.

To make is to allow rage to transform into action. It is the hammer striking metal, the saw cutting through wood—a release, a confrontation with the things that haunt us. It is a refusal to remain silent, to let our emotions be buried. Through our hands, we give form to the fury that burns within us, channeling it into something that speaks of resilience.

To make is to honor grief. It is the quiet shaping of clay, the slow stitching of fabric. It is the way we sit with loss and give it a shape, a presence. We make because we have lost, because we remember, because we carry with us the echoes of what was. Our creations are offerings, acts of remembrance that allow us to grieve and to heal.

To make is to embrace ecstasy. It is the thrill of creation, the joy of seeing something come into being that did not exist before. It is the moment when the pieces fit together, when the form reveals itself, and we feel that rush of possibility. Making is not just work—it is play, it is wonder, it is the pure delight of bringing beauty into the world.

To make is to savor pleasure. It is the feel of wood beneath our fingers, the smell of fresh earth, the glow of metal from the forge. It is the pleasure of the senses-being present in the act of creation. We do not make just to produce—we make to feel, to connect, to find pleasure in the movement of our bodies and the materials beneath our hands.

Creation can be simple. It does not need to be grand or perfect or purposeful. It is a quiet act, a small gesture, a moment of connection between ourselves and the flowers and the world. We are not here to prove our worth through what we make. We are here to live, to feel, to express, to be. Our value is not in our output—it is in our being.

We make because we are alive. We make because it is how we understand the world, how we process, how we connect to something greater than ourselves. We make because it is in our nature—not to achieve, not to impress, but simply to be. And in every act of making, we find a reflection of our humanity—raw, imperfect, beautiful.

We make because we must. We make because it matters. We make to stay alive.

—

In our world of shortcuts and capitalism, the act of making becomes a statement of care. A refusal to let beauty and wonder fade from our lives. It is a radical act that I practice.

How do you enact this in your own life? —

If this elegy resonates with you, please share it, give it a heart, or pledge your support. Though I share this freely—without paywalls or price tags—it holds value. What meaning does it hold for you?