Writing and doing any creative art has been more of a struggle lately. I have so many plans and ideas and projects that are trapped in the seemingly eternal state of being incomplete. My unfinished paintings watch me from my shelf, my skeins of yarn lay untouched under my bed, my blog “A Prose A Day” lays rotting on the internet. I have wasted a month soaking in dark ideas presented to me by my own anxieties.
I know the cause of it, too!
I went from being a full-time student with a part-time job to a boring homebody. I used to leave my house at 8am to catch the BART to go to work, then two hours later hop back on the train to go to SF to go to school. I would grab a hot cup of coffee and watch people move. I remember seeing a woman on the street, head down in resignation dragging mismatched luggage and clothes scattered on the floor. I remember eyeing a piece of graffiti, only for it to be covered by a thin veil of monotonous paint. There were so many sights and sounds and smells! My brain was overloaded with inspiration and I treated it with indifference!
I was moving, my ideas were moving… but I had no time.
Yet now I have all the time in the world to create but don’t have the drive to do anything about it.
I was used to an environment and had failed to adapt to this new lifestyle.
I cannot delay my projects any longer. Art is in veins. I create because I love doing it. This is a matter of will, and I have no more excuses.