Inspiration is a cruel mistress. One minute she is there by your side, encouraging your burgeoning thoughts, nurturing them, holding your hand through the creative process; the next she has stifled your imagination. When she is benevolent, ideas come forth from the conceptual conveyor belt in my brain at a rate of knots. At other times I can’t think of a thing. And there I sit, drifting listlessly on a sea of mundanity; floating on the salty tears of inspiration which have the ability to neither satiate nor sustain. It is drab, as far as the eye can see. The artist’s burden.
The days seem short, compressed. My life, usually a whirlwind of creativity goes cold. And then, panic. All inventiveness replaced with panic. I constantly contemplate a resolution to end the drought. Hours turn to minutes as if to taunt me. Every raised head towards the clock hurtles me more rapidly forward in time. My brain becomes ever conscious that I still haven’t started a new project, and that the notion that this is ‘just a blip’ has lingered that bit too long.
I am beige. I am cream cheese. My witty repartee replaced with verbal detritus, fashioned out of concepts stolen from Saturday night television. Is this it? Will this slow, agonising death of a persona ever reach its conclusion, or could this be my new equilibrium? If so, this is a sore, bitter epiphany. The realisation that the vibrant tapestry that surrounds the soul has dulled, the colours fading from it like an ancient mosaic, painted with visions of former glories.
But previous experience tells me that in time there will be an awakening, a rebirth. The phoenix rising from the ashes once again, this time clutching an Adidas holdall spilling over with schemes, ideas and notions. A plethora of evolving thoughts, all seeking to blossom into a creative whirl. Yes, at some point inspiration will return to me. She will replenish my power of thought and normality will resume. Of that I am certain.
But for now, I am nothing; a shadow, a shell. My mind is in neglect. I am being steered by a dark force that seeks to erase the rich complexities of ingenuity. I am burdened by a waning positivity which is leaving my mind barren. The devil of idleness controls me. I am Donald Sutherland at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I am the man I passed in the street one early weekday morning who, whilst staring longingly at a leg of lamb in the window of a closed butcher’s shop, uttered under his breath,
” …that’s fucking lovely’.
