I would like to be able to say that I have championed my creativity and now revel in it every day and that all is well in my kingdom. But the opposite is true. I find myself in a state of blandness that is so all encompassing it's as though my entire life is first wrapped in styrofoam and finished off with a thick sheet of bubble wrap. Perhaps it is ennui. Perhaps calling it ennui is just a way of shrugging off responsibility for a chronic state of apathy. Perhaps I just don't have any passion.
There. I said it. I have no passion. I seek passion. I elevate passion to godly heights. But I don't actually BELIEVE that that kind of ecstatic state is relevant to little old plain me.
Ah. That feels better. The clear waters of truth sluice away the grime of confusion.
Yes, that was a terrible erstatz metaphor. And saying erstatz in front of metaphor is even worse.
Ah. It's good to just face things for what they are.
So, I have identified the kernel of the problem. I reject my own thoughts because they are too ordinary, which by extension means my creations are too ordinary. I mean who on earth would care to read what is produced by my humble little mind?
I hate to say it, but this is an archetypal question for artists. It is one of the biggest indicators (and stumbling blocks) of the road less travelled. (Less travelled being defined as the place where some others fear to tread because there are no certainties here, only contemplations and potentialities).
Well. What to do?
What I'm doing already. Express it. No matter how lame and derivative. No matter how lacking lustre. Just get the energy moving. Nothing for it but movement. It's like what will happen to a still body of water over time. It stagnates and perhaps becomes poisonous. The only remedy is a good hard rain.
