Dayyan Sisson

Humanities, Lopez

April 15th, 2015

Ink
What starvation feeds you, oh Devourer of the words of a thousand authors and poets alike? Wells are
emptied to whet your thirst, so well shake out to the last drop of fluency to carve ink into these
precious words. To dedicate a thought in desperation.
~ Trenton Woodley

It begins with a spark. A whisper of inspiration. A breath of smoke, and then an idea is kindled.
And like a fire, it will grow dancing, leaping, spreading, burning. There, it manifests itself in black and
white. And in ink it will stay.

From the moment of my conception, Ive been exposed to poetry. Through art and music,
writing and story, Ive always found myself in one way or another analyzing the world through eyes
that longed to seek deeper. Music itself has always been a natural expression of my soul; whether it be
through immersing myself in melody or expressing it. My mother was a singer, my father was a singer.
My sister still sings, intoning harmonies and chanting verses. For a while though, I had no voice. I
pretended like I could sing it was fun to think I could. My father was convinced I was tone deaf.
Instead, I played violin for 12 years of my life, guitar for another four. Soon though, when I was fifteen,
my desire to sing rekindled. Listening to artists like Tim McIlrath, Jonny Craig, Trenton Woodley, and
Brent Walsh re-inspired me, and I found myself trying to emulate them. It took several months before I
could hit a solid note (mostly because of my partial tone deafness), and several more to string together
a melody. But eventually I got it, and soon after I began to find comfort in its expression.

My solace was short lived. Over the period of two years, I had developed a reliance on my
ability to express myself through song. Even though I rarely sang in front of others (more because of
my own desire to keep it to myself rather than a lack of self confidence), I constantly wrote and played

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music. Prolific, every day was like a shower of inspiration. It came in torrents, filling my veins,
occupying my thoughts; rushing like a flowing river, smooth and with ease. It quickly became my only
release.

Then it was gone.

One day I found myself in front of a blank sheet, guitar in one hand, pen in another. I stopped, cleared
my head, and waited for the inspiration to flow, and nothing came. I sat in desolate in my room with no
passion, no words, no melodies, no expression. My throat felt barren. My mind lay dry. My heart was
dug hollow, my hand was spent lifeless. I spent the first few days staring at a blank page, hoping for a
savior to come. I felt like I was walled up, feeling something but unable to express it. Summer nights
grew chill, and as fall came I had only managed to write one verse, With vacant eyes and buried smiles
with silver linings cracked open wide a splinter of life, a void left in time the spindling hands of
the clock running wild. The verse screamed of my predicament: every day became routine, I wasnt
remembering my dreams, the days blurred together, and as time ran its course I began losing hope of
finding my muse.

It sounds quite dramatic in retrospect, and it truly was. I had grown so attached to my ability to express
myself that my reliance on it crippled me. I felt myself boarding up, and over my sophomore year I felt
my regression. I was adrift, no longer seeing clearly enough to behold my future, no longer finding the
direction to take me there. I was focused on finding a solution within myself, but I found no answer. I
was focused on finding inspiration within myself, but I found no muse. I was focused on finding
myself. But I found nothing at all. So I prayed.

Over days and weeks, I felt it return. It wasnt a full breath no there was not enough air to fill my
honeycomb lungs. But it was something. Enough to breathe a prayer, to hold a whisper on my lips. And
I carried it, each day regaining more and more of the passion that had so quickly died away. I began to

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write again with poetry reformed. I wrote songs too. The verses were broken and scattered, disjointed
and knotted. But they were there again.

It was detachment. Thats why it was coming back. I had spent so long growing tied to my expression
that it blinded me to its true purpose: to give, to grace the ears of others with its poetry and melody. I
may not have been good, not even remotely good; the words may have had no meaning outside of my
own head. But the realization came that selfless expression was a true emanation of my soul. Now I
found myself writing with the joy of others in mind, versus my prior mode of self-preservation that was
blinding my sight. Music was my solace and I knew that, but I kept it buried. If expression was like a
river, then my river never flowed. And still water grows stagnant, black, diseased Water that does not
flow gives no life, and my expression likewise could not save me, nor anyone else.

I prayed more. I prayed for detachment, for purpose. And though I received no direct answer, no
Godsend, I felt confirmation through the light in the eyes of those who came to listen to the music I
would compose. To write, to express, for others and not myself that was the clear answer. And the
walls slowly, steadily came down. Now I write music. I play it occasionally, mostly for and with my
closer friends when we come together. I play it aloud and I write it down. In black and white. In pen
and ink.
And in ink it will stay.