Tag: creativity

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The Clearing

Right now,
I feel empty
Of creative thoughts.

Perhaps I’m tired.
Distracted.
Stressed.

But there feels
Like a heavy wall
Soft.
And absorbing.
Is swallowing
Any and all
Creative thought.

It is a strange time.
A void
That cannot be filled.

Or perhaps
It is something else.
A clearing
Of the decks.

A quiet preparation
For something
I cannot yet see.

It feels
Like I’m falling asleep,
But I’m wide awake.
Perhaps I will sleep soon,
And somewhere
Beyond consciousness,
Wonders will reveal
Themselves.

Perhaps
There is simply
No time
To commit
To creating.

And that,
Frustratingly,
May be alright.

Perhaps I must
Let the silence
Have its way.

Let the wall remain.
Let the thoughts
Disappear.

And trust
That when they return,
They will know
Why they left.

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Architecture of Imagination

Cordoned from the outside world by trees,
I sit,
A man beneath a blissful blindfold.

The rooms I keep are dark.
They leave no space
For distraction.
Windows cloaked in blackest velvet,
Drawn closed,
As I go about my business,

The business of imagining.

The scent of each room
Is as I wish it to be.
They look and sound
As I desire.
The artifacts of my life
Line shelves, cabinets, and walls.
Past lives and dreams recorded.

Every frame,
Every book,
Every ornament,
Holds a memory,
A fragment of dream
Extracted from me.

There is abundance here,
Yet beneath it,
Order.
Everything my eye settles upon
Serves a purpose.

As I shuffle from room to room,
Teacup and saucer in hand,
I am thankful
For the comfort and safety of
My home.
My sanctuary.
My castle.
My keep.

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I am Fruit Loops

In life, creative people are often referred to as fruit loops,
But that is okay.
Fruit loops are well-rounded,
Full of colour, have excellent taste,
And are rich in character.
They can blend into their surroundings,
While adding their own vibrant presence.

At first, they may seem hard,
But time reveals their softness.
You never quite forget them;
Their sweetness lingers after they’re gone.

Because their explosive, colourful lives are often brief,
They are gone too soon.
Yet in the wake of their absence,
They leave the bland brighter,
The ordinary more interesting,
And the world richer than before.

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Nothing

Today I feel nothing.
I do not feel bad,
Nor do I feel good.
I drift somewhere between the two,
Indifferent to it all.

Yet I feel confused.
A little numb to my surroundings,
As though I stand just outside myself,
Watching the world move past.

I no longer feel the lure of creation
As I have these past two weeks,
Those fruitful days
Filled with stories, dreams, and possibility.

Now everything feels…
Quiet.
As though I have nothing to say.
Yet at the same time,
I desperately want to have something to say.

It is a peculiar emptiness,
A silence without peace,
A stillness without comfort.

And perhaps that is the source of my confusion.
Not sorrow.
Not joy.
Only the absence of both.

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Newton’s Cradle

My mind is finally being nourished creatively,
Like a Newton’s cradle in motion, I have momentum,
Ideas collide,
A hundred thoughts suddenly fighting for sunlight.

I feel as though I have lingered too long in darkness,
A creative solitary confinement of fatigue,
Working beneath soul-sapping monotony,
The stress of day work loosening its chokehold.

Slowly, surely,
My imagination returns.
I can write, I can create,
I can rebuild the architecture of my mind.

The weight, the weight,
That heavy crushing upon my thoughts,
Has begun to lessen.
That sickly hunger for content, content, content,
Is subsiding.

It feels as though the tide is withdrawing,
Allowing the sands of creativity to breathe.
I know the tide shall return,
But for the first time in a long while,
I will have taken a breath.

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Finding Portals

As the calendar closes
On this final day of the year,
I feel little
Beyond a quiet indifference.

Looking back
At everything I created,
One thing remains clear,
My enthusiasm
Never truly left me.

But somewhere along the way,
I did.
My output declined.
I still feel lost.

As though encased
Within an airtight concrete bunker,
Lightless.
Airless.
Restrained.
Writing became
My greatest refuge.

My private notebooks
Grew increasingly illegible,
Their pages
Heavy with frantic imagery.
Some were illustrated
With such force
That the paper tore.

Words screamed across the margins.
Pages were punctured,
Discarded,
Replaced.

Each wrapped
In an explosion
Of coloured madness,
As though
Several versions of myself
Were all trying
To speak at once.

Uncontrolled.
Unrefined.
Searching.

Perhaps that
Is the purpose
Of a new year.
Not to become
Someone different,
But to rediscover
Who has always been there.

To turn
The walls of my mind
From prison
Into portals.

To walk once more
Toward the place
Where creativity,
Wonder,
And wellness
Meet.

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The Sound of White Noise

I work diligently to keep my mind clear and calm,

I create things with various art forms, I have many different hobbies,

However, these are rarely successful long-term distractions,

Frame of mind is everything, and I can feel my mind drifting,

Drifting from where I would like it to be,

Sometimes, inside of my head feels like I’m locked in a loud crowded room,

Inside I’m trying my best to focus, to communicate, or to escape,

Some days it feels impossible to create anything, because of the noise,

Other days it is easier, the volume is down, and my mind is inexplicably pliable,

They say, after every storm comes peace,  

Therefore, after so much sound, there should be silence,

After most creative endeavours, comes such emptiness,

I pour myself into whatever I create, and I’m unsparing in the amount,

Time to hit the mute button for a while and let the white noise fade out.

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