How is it that I’m full of motivation but I can find nothing worthy to write of? How is it that I can feel the burning desire to translate my thoughts into words yet I cannot yet comprehend those thoughts? How is it that I itch to express my muse but I can find no way of doing so?
I have taken a paint brush to a canvas, splashing a concoction of paint and tea across my paper; I have attempted to sketch the insides of my soul; and I have played with the poetry of my mind, yet I still cannot fathom what is trying to escape from within me. I am growing worried that it’ll seep through my pores and crack through my ribs because this unknown energy is growing restless; trapped.
Afraid of being perceived as fraudulent and understand that that’s all it has ever been and all it can ever be, this desire remains within the shell of my being. It is a rarity for an idea to be truly original; “good artists copy, great artists steal” is the mindset that Picasso embedded within us years ago. It will not – it cannot – escape as it feels as if it is pretending to be something it’s not.
The barriers board my chest and I feel my creative urge bubbling beneath the surface of my skin. I take a pencil; I take a piece of paper; and I make the first wound. Picasso hits home, once again, “the urge to destroy is also a creative urge”.