writer’s block has killed me most of my life. I think that’s normal for people; probably there’d be a lot more writers if not for the dreaded northern wall of ice, teeming with silent frost giants known as the writers block.

there is a creative energy deep in your heart. it never goes out, it never runs out, but it is distant, difficult to harness or understand, rare and ephemeral. so its a girl; what’s worse, its a fairy girl that insists on hiding behind leaves and throwing apples full of gold at you when you look away, rather than some proper businessman with the mental geometry of a man, all form and clarity.

the problem is, if a square suit of a man is your muse, you’d write a brochure about the functioning of an office door. or breakdown a recent analysis of staple production. the man is boring as fuck. logic, math, reason. powerful, interesting, but not artistic. although i suppose at the deepest levels, math does become cosmic and lovely.

what you have is the nature of the muse — mysterious, fast, made of air, eternally creative and free, like a hyper hyperchromatic angel feather floating through space; and the nature of man: logical, competitive, embodied, lusting, hungry, confused, fearful. writer’s block is the animal nature inhibiting the infinite nature of your soul.

you are god dreaming you are a man; you are the energy beyond spacetime dreaming you’re an electricity monkey, swinging around in a steel jungle. indeed, every animal is god dreaming, but other animals do not possess our capacity to reflect and analyze, and most importantly for the artist, our capacity to imagine. our imagination is infinite, is it not? it is not surprise, considering who #you really #are~

(dancing along the forming planetchains within the crucible of time, #she whispered to we the nonexistence: don’t worry love, I’ll only pretend to kill you forever~)

creativity is like happiness: its effortless. the fears and drives of the animal, to survive, to eat and fornicate and win, these take effort. we, as a species, are consumed by these thought/desires that well up out of our inherent instincts as animals. the animal nature knows nothing about art, and philosophy, science. its about awareness, reaction, instinct, simplicity.

in order to be in touch with the #muse herself, you must approach the keyboard/typewriter/cave wall with no ego or competition in your heart. no desire to be better than other writers; no desire to be better than your previous self; zero desires for anything. if you can sit beneath the nonlocal tree of enlightenment like this long enough, the muses in colorful, jubilant schools will come swirling forth from the ether, their wings made of jewels and music. finally! and in the space created by the absence of ambition, the skymermaids #dance and #poetry open to you a portal to new, wild, unseen, undiscovered worlds, hidden within your own soul.

it is on the perfectly calm, mirror surface of the lake that the gods come down to roost; fortune and blessing gather in stillness.

this is very difficult, especially for artists, because our whole life is egoistic and about ourselves and about glory and success and fame. especially me me me. 😀 ironic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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