Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Strokes, Notes and Words

Last night, I couldn't seem to drift off into the oblivion of sweet slumber as early as other nights. It was, however, an eventful night. Many of you no doubt comprehend the sensation of not being able to fall asleep. I tossed and turned in the dark, staring at my old nightlight, at the glow in the dark stars that paved the low ceiling, and at the unassuming clock on my nightstand. What had I to lose? I released my thoughts, let them run wild and let them frolic around and around until they satisfied themselves enough to bring me sleep. They danced inside my mind to a melody only audible to them. Anyway, eventually, my thoughts wandered down a familiar path.

I thought about writing, about every form of art really. From what I gather, being an artist is fairly challenging. Are there any artists who are reading this right now? Are you a creator? Well then, if you are an painter, have you ever looked at a blank canvas and felt anxiety bubbling up inside? Have you ever looked upon that empty awaiting canvas and then glanced at your brush feeling panic? Do you ever wonder "Can I fill this up? Can I make it worth looking at?" For a musician, have you ever looked upon an empty page wondering if you can fill it up with notes and harmonies that will conjure nostalgic images within someone's mind or touch a long hardened heart? Have you ever looked at those talented fingers and thought "What if I can't make magic anymore? Worse, what if I never did?" I believe writing is a form of art as well especially writing poetry. From the perspective of a writer, I can tell you this. I have thought this a million times. Every single time that I lay my eyes on a sheet of blank, expectant paper, I feel the beginning of a mild hysteria. No joke. I wonder if I will ever write as well as I did yesterday. I wonder what lies ahead. Is it more inspiration, more surrealism, more felicity or simply dullness, mundane routines and boring faces? I always fret that it will be the latter set of words. I don't know about anyone else but to me, finding this. . . I'm not even sure what to call it. Some say it is a hobby but that seems too unimportant. I suppose it could be called a form of repose or evasion. Anyway, finding this form of escape has been amazing. I found myself peeking behind the curtain into a world I never knew existed. And, the best part was, the citizens welcomed me with open arms. We always worry that the things we care for the most will be taken away from us, don't we? I always fret that this is a temporary thing or that it is something that will be taken away sooner rather than later. It may not make much sense but such are the thoughts that swarm my conscious mind.

It's difficult. It's no wonder many avoid and stray from it. Then, I thought about how some people I knew were once so very passionate about the art they did for it quenched a raging desire for expression. But, like a dying flame in the glacial winter air, that desire eventually extinguished. Now, all these people do is meander the streets at night, wondering where their love for life has gone. Was it even possible to find that love again? It's tragic, really. I found myself fretting that one day, I would become like those temporary slaves of art, of expression. I worried that like a star, I would sooner or later lose my luster. I wondered if anyone else felt like I did. Did any other artist wonder constantly if they still had the ability to create? There was only one resolution in my line of sight. I had to keep creating. Stopping meant the possibility of never being able to start again. And, naturally, I couldn't risk that. Nope, not in a million years.

I hope I did not bore you to death with this long post. Well, even if I did, on the bright side, this empty page is filled. I am thankful. I can rest easy tonight.

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