Art. Cliche? Maybe. Or maybe it's a way of life, the heart and soul of some. Given that, what happens when the well of creativity, that life-spark driving the light, shadow, colors and prose runs dry, or is emptied by the carelessness or abuses of others? Bringing rhetorical questions to the table means I'm still working this one out. There's no way I would promise myself I'll have answers, at least not anytime soon. Truth be told, I've stopped making promises to myself several years ago.
Each day is met with a knot in my stomach. Not really a panic thing, but just this side of the hole leading to that abyss, one that I've not had the displeasure of visiting. Nor do I care to--visit that is. Still, this vaguely familiar 'gut' feeling is one that isn't completely new to me, and I will admit that it's usually brought about after the long haul of unhappiness has brought me to my knees. I'm there. Waking each day just this side of panic and wondering why the hell I'm still here, in this place, with this person, and at this particular time. "Fate" has no hand in this. I walked right into this, head first, eyes closed, and purposely forgetting every lesson I've learned to-date.
My bad. No really. I mean it. My bad.
Especially through those fatigue-laden morning hours, where I struggle to get from point A to point B, that is where the worst of the darkness resides. My ability to get through it all amazes even me. If I can make it to the first cup of coffee, then the next, I should be okay (for the most part). If I can just get THERE I might just make it without falling apart in one way or another. Hell, even if I did fall apart---who would see, care? If a tree falls in the forest....
I'm tired. Yes, I know, by now you think even that's a cliche. But I am. Tired. All over, inside and out, in body, mind, and spirit. Especially that last part. Every day. And I meant that.
Where once the well of creativity was clear, deep, holding mysteries... there's now just a fading imprint, a line on the wall if you will... that marks where the good stuff once was. No, I'm not trying to be poetic. Just stating how I see it, how it feels. The essence of that creativity where the color, light, shadow, prose... is there. Oh, not in abundance. Not yet anyway. But it's still there. I can sometimes be moved by the world around me, despite the bland dredges of life with T.
More later.......
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