Have you ever felt like you’ve been given a 120-count box of crayons and a beautiful coloring book full of intricate, scenic pictures, and for some reason you haphazardly yet thoroughly scribble over each and every page with the same beige stick of wax?
I thought I entertained a talent. I thought I possessed a gift. But lately, all I notice is a hole in my heart – a dark space, a void, where once there was a spark. It became a passion – a drive – early in my life. Some may even equate it to a drug; it offered a way for me to experience a high. The rush of adrenaline and the euphoria of tactile “creation” were unmatched. It ushered me into another realm from which I could escape whatever sinister chiasms of reality threatened to devour my spirit. I became quite dependent on the tantalizing notion of being able to bend reality to suit my mood. However, the unwavering tick of the clock proved not as forgiving, and I had to slink away, nary a moment to sip from the pool of cathartic verbiage to poetize.
Desperate for tangible evidences of creativity, I found less potent “soul-narcotics”, and began spinning yarns (literally, yarn projects – crocheting, knitting, anything to experience “creation” again). But alas, days dripped into weeks, which poured into months, which flooded into years, cascading to this, my breaking point, where I can no longer deny this overwhelming desire to dive – full-body, wholeheartedly – back into the throes of addiction; to once again toil over the expression of hopes and desires and to feel the exhilaration of exquisitely executed alliteration. Of course, breaking free of my captor, Monsieur Obligatoire, was no easy task; the complete success of my escape still remains to be seen. Until I am dragged, kicking and screaming, back to the dungeon of dreary academia expository dribble, I will satiate my lust for imagination activity by hacking away at long-slumbering story lines and plodding plot schemes in hopes of developing some delectable morsels adequate and suitable for consumption.
Forlornly, I long for the days of effortless prose, uninhibited wanderings of whimsy and intriguing exploration beyond the concrete and gray… Is there a way back to the garden? Is there a way back along the dry and unforgiving path to where the thick twisted tree branches bow and sway under the weight of vibrant song-filled fantastical birds and the yellow-pink air, swirling sweet with fruit and fresh rain? Will I again triumphantly return and know the joy of simple and profound inspiration, nestled peacefully between passion’s flame and the tangible side of imagination? That is my hope.
Managing to hike up through the brambles and weeds, over the rocky, worn path, and past the dilapidated fencing, I stand before the rather large, somewhat intimidating door… Without preparation, without thorough planning, without unabashed confidence, I now seem to lack the strength – more precisely, the courage – to push beyond the barrier; truth be told, I can’t even bring myself to humbly knock and beg passage. Trying with all that is left within me to muster up the fortitude and resume my journey despite the dark raging storms, the tempests of deepest doubt and the gusts of insecurity that berate my spirit, I dig my heel into the sandy soil, draw a breath from my right pinky toe, exhale with the exuberance of a teenager at the dentist’s office, and forge on.