There’s an idea, a story in me, as there is in everyone. Stimuli help it on it’s journey to prose or poetry – those little bursts of inspirations, bouncing off the walls only I can see. They bring the story to the surface, for the world to see. Or ignore.
Excuse me, while I state, the latter is prevalent. Originality is sincere and vulnerable. Slick charm is much more dependable.
It’s a sick, exhausting process, but please don’t call it rewardless. Imagination is my escape from the world that craves a spotlight.
So you can boast your beers to the Joe by your side, but when you see the girl with an unfinished drink and a dazed look in her eye – curb your instinct, and don’t you dare feel sorry.
She’s in a better place, believe me.
I welcome the little bugger you call inspiration, whichever hour it calls. The more unearthly, the better. (If only I could say the same about people.) We dance a little routine and we create wonders. Wonders, that cannot be shouted out in a loud drunken slur from the middle of a crowded room. Wonders, by extension, that no one cares about.
But its surprising how little that matters – that no one appreciates the designs in your scratchpad or that no one reads what you write. Art is it’s own reward. Art is for art’s sake. Pictures and words can fill me with the smell of sunshine and in tune with their temperamental streak, drive me to meltdowns. And yet, I reiterate, don’t you dare feel sorry.
At least I’m true to my ghosts. I cuddle with them at night; every once in a while I allow them to take over. I tell them the hard hurtful truth and so I control them in ways you will never understand.
My ghosts are my inner battles. They germinate into beauty, but you have to give it time. And you have to give it patience. Both are drying in the Gen X pool of instant gratification.
Creatives are not an alien community of freaks. They are a side to every soul that tries to bubble up, but is suppressed by those who prefer the anonymity of social media and fake conversation.
If you can’t say it to yourself, let me say it you, dear jocks (you’re not the only ones who can name call): your comfort zone is a mask. If your soul doesn’t hunger and if you’ve killed your instinct, that’s a shame multifold worse that the kid on the sidelines with his version of a brush and a bulletproof idea.