I look up to the dull heavy clouds just to appreciate that nothing in life is promised including the Sun.
I can’t find the inspiration to create nor does color reside in my world. It seems something has come along and drained me dry of light yet I’m not searching.
I ask myself, maybe that light wasn’t bright enough to begin with?
Just maybe living in the grey heavy clouds is exactly where I need to be. As a creator it is my job to constantly create, it’s my life purpose to find the color where there is none.
In these darker greyer day’s, where everything feels to heavy to move and nothing external seem’s to do the trick. I’m forced to dig deep inside myself and find a foreign type of inspiration.
Inspiration that has no word’s because i haven’t applied meaning yet to these experiences or memories. This is what really need’s to be written about, this is what people really want to know.
How to apply to word’s and emotion’s to the parts of ourselves that have never been defined. How to pull out that subconscious piece of matter that run’s it’s course of life behind the scenes. Where no one can see and breathe life into it, that to me is a creator, that is to me is the essence of writing.