Thread by Thread

Raise your hand if art is the only thing keeping you sane right now.
If every song you love feels like a thread stitching your soul back together.
If stories, borrowed or built, are the fragile bridge between you and the void.

How do you stay sane as a creative? For me, it’s losing myself in a story I’ve spun in my mind, letting its currents carry me somewhere safer than the chaos of now. Every human has a unique mind; artists simply choose to wield it like a lantern in the dark.

Sometimes I wonder: Why do I find solace in stories that aren’t mine? Why do imagined worlds, galaxies light-years away or kingdoms conjured from myth, sometimes feel more coherent than the one I inhabit? Is my own arc so faint that I need someone else to feel tethered?

But maybe it’s not about relevance.
Maybe it’s about recognition.

In those stories, whether from a dog-eared book, a flickering screen, or a daydream on a faraway land, I glimpse pieces of myself. Not literal reflections, but emotional truths: a character’s quiet courage echoing my unspoken hopes, their ache of loss mirroring mine. My mind clings to these moments, weaving them into lifelines. A single line from a novel, a fleeting scene in a film, or a half-formed idea scribbled on a napkin can become an anchor, something that pulls me back to myself.

I don’t always understand how it works, only as it does. My mind is always shaping, stitching together metaphors, imagined dialogues, and characters who are braver than I feel, or just as lost.

Last week, I sat on a park bench, the sunset sinking low, and a melody from a half-forgotten song sparked a scene: a lone figure under a starlit sky, whispering their fears to the night. For a moment, I was them. For a moment, I was whole.

But living in stories doesn’t always translate to living off them.

Someone recently asked me, “If you know your ikigai, your reason for being, why aren’t you following it?”
The question stung. Not because it was cruel, but because it assumed a straight path.

Creativity isn’t a highway; it’s a tangle of backroads and dead ends. I am following my ikigai, but it’s messy. Making a living as a creative is a gauntlet. The work is taxing, pouring your soul into something only to meet rejection, erratic success, or the silence of subjectivity. Recognition rarely aligns with merit, and financial stability feels like a mirage. There’s no ladder to climb, no clear map to follow.

Yet I keep weaving.
Stories, mine or others,’ are my rebellion against the void.
They’re my way of saying: I’m here. I’m human. I’m still reaching for meaning, one thread at a time.

Image: Personal Archive 2025 | Jones Lake, Moncton, New Brunswick