Sweet shining birds.
I've been stuck... for months. I tend to be a creative fury kind of artist. Pounding out the pieces, the ideas coming so quickly, my hands can't keep up with my mind can't keep up with my heart. I tell myself to slow down, to be logical, to meditate. But there's nothing logical when you're playing with fire. And then... it comes. This wall of emptiness surrounding me like a sleeping bag, pulling me inside and zipping me up tight. My heartbeat slows down. Thank God for the rest.
Then I sit in that darkness and wait...
and wait some more.
Will it ever come back?
Maybe I was crazy and it never was there to begin with.
Maybe I have no more worthy ideas.
Maybe I don't need to torture myself anymore pretending to be something I'm not.
Then the pressure starts.
People begin to ask.
When are you going to pick up those brushes?
Some even make demands.
I stay in my bag, zipped up tight.
Until suddenly I become curious.
I unzip a corner.
Light peaks through, warming me
They never left me at all.
They were the vessel for my emptiness...