Inspiration can come from anywhere at any time. It can also languish just out of reach. It might be elusive for less than a moment, or even for a lifetime. Either way, the lack of it can be excruciating.
Creative “blocks” can come in many forms. Just telling an artist to “go create” can be one. The list of catalysts extends into infinity. Most that create art do so in a chosen environmental setting. A quiet corner, a surrounding of books or images, lucky charms, talismans, favorite pen or pencil, there are no limits to what any given artist might use. Likewise, there is no end to the settings that might be the best for any given artist.
Creative “blocks” are the brick walls that strand artist concretely in reality. The moment of “now” becomes a prison from which there seems to be no egress. The words, music, images, shapes, and forms cease to materialize. The mind flounders painfully. Marooned too long, the body may well succumb to the pain as well.
Hope becomes a lonely vigil. Deep down inside the artist knows there is a memory of something that might shatter the blockage. It can be found. It will eventually be found. Until that happens, the floodwaters will build behind that dam. The weight might crush the spirit, but even as it warps the mind like a black hole being birthed hope expands exponentially.
Great artists don’t create things so the world can enjoy them. Great artists create things because they enjoy creating them. The history of whatever genre they work in has little to do with their idea. The easy way out would be to use things created in the past to ferment any given idea into a product. The right way out is to find the right ingredients within and ferment them unaccompanied.
Reality is a desert where imagination must venture. Reality whips up putrid dust storms and rattles off dry lightning in great sheets. Blinding grains of pulverized dreams cut into the minds’ eye. Boulders dance by on tangled lines of screaming magnetism and haphazard gravity wells. Imagination is lost if it cannot maintain its’ posture. For imagination to survive it must take to a chrysalis. Its lone refuge is within the artist. The heart, mind, body, and soul, are its only haven.
Cocooned, as imagination is, the raging din of reality might fade just enough for a scant thought to be processed. That flicker of contemplation might just germinate the seed of an idea. If it sprouts strongly enough it might well shatter the dam. If the time is right, imagination might bring forth a flood. The dream might explode into a tidal wave that brushes the clouds away and settles the dust into muddy rivers. Imagination can then steer the boulders, smooth out the distortions of gravity and magnetism, and use as much of that energy as possible to build the little idea into something fully original and new. If nothing springs forth from the little thought then it can only be hoped that the cocoon is strong enough to last long enough for something good to happen.
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