Remember when you wrote and it meant everything to you?
You wrote for survival, to process, to live.
Now it's different and it feels like a labor, and maybe this is what people mean when they say art comes out of suffering. Or, if not suffering, at least confusion.
You wrote for survival, to process, to live.
Now it's different and it feels like a labor, and maybe this is what people mean when they say art comes out of suffering. Or, if not suffering, at least confusion.
Don't yearn to be lost just so you're driven back to the canvas. If there's a god, he/she/it wouldn't create only out of pain. Look around - see the world? See the grass? Hear the birds? God didn't make those just because they had a sore throat or a broken heart that day.
There's an art that comes from living after you've written your way out of the thicket.
Honor that past work you did by living now. Write or don't. Paint or just sit around and eat Cheezits. Scribble off a line or two that you find mediocre or cliché.
What's it matter when the keyboard clicking still feels pretty good?
Confusion and suffering come and go; don't spend time wistfully pining. Just make some shitty art while you wait.
Honor that past work you did by living now. Write or don't. Paint or just sit around and eat Cheezits. Scribble off a line or two that you find mediocre or cliché.
What's it matter when the keyboard clicking still feels pretty good?
Confusion and suffering come and go; don't spend time wistfully pining. Just make some shitty art while you wait.
