Killer Creatives

Creating on a schedule feels whacky sometimes. Like you're trying to get things flowing, but you're just going through the motions. It feels mechanical, forced, and inorganic. Compare it to those rare glimpses of inspiration where polished, premeditated, and well-thought-out ideas seem to put themselves together effortlessly. That stuff happens once in a few months, though. When you go for a long time without expressing yourself, you know exactly what you want to say. You have time to articulate it and understand the most interesting parts of the idea.

Sometimes it feels like all you really need is a good idea, other times, it feels like all anyone has is a bunch of ideas with nothing to show for it. I often thought to myself that becoming a writer, a storyteller, or an artist would be something I have an inherent talent for. I imagined that I would be exceptionally good at it and that my personality fits that kind of work. Life could be so good if I did that, it'll make me happy, and I could really push myself hard when I feel genuinely happy. I still feel like that often. I rationalize it in my head, like it's something I'm destined for in some ways.

I figured that when I would be happy, I could do more for the world, and then the world would be happy. I'm starting to question the value of this talent I imagined myself having. Whatever propensity I might have toward crafting stories is easily overshadowed by this sense of entitlement. What is the use of this will and purpose, if I'm just waiting for some handout or ideal conditions? It seems like it's only worth it if I earn that right. If I slowly build myself up to be in a position where I can craft these passion projects, not for profit or pleasure, but to manifest that vision of mine into reality. 

But not the wishy-washy kind of passive manifestation, I'm talking creating something from the ground up like an architect. So this has become my new reality. I focus my attention on things around me, the needs of the moment, and how I can benefit the world in the best way immediately. I try to stay my ground and prioritize the things that must be done now so that I can follow my dreams long-term and sustainably. I think it out and I map out this logical path to success. Work on my body, build valuable skills I can get paid for, and earn good money. Makes sense, doesn't it?

Yet the biggest reason I wanted to create stories is because I don't want to make sense. It's a slow kind of death, to live your life under logic's rule. Perhaps it feels right to most, but I ache to blow it up to smithereens. I only hope that this slow death will be worthwhile in its own right, in fact, I must believe and have faith that it most certainly will. Things are hard and life is lonely, I feel like a stranger and very ugly, but I see that this is the way. Just looking down at what's in front of me makes me tired, and I find myself fantasizing about getting fired. In times when I want so desperately to drown myself in these wretched creative needs, I try to remind myself why I must stay my course and believe. 

The voices in my head scream at me to do more than this. Why have we created a world only to exist? In a land full of hazards and competition, we've made everyone the same, filled with tired old notions. The world is desperate for creatures of ability, so why does it suffice with photocopies of you and me? I try to remind myself it's not that bad. Not too long ago, I was stuck in a loop that was driving me mad. For at least I'm suffering for something that'll eventually set me free before it was hateful bitterness and forced deceit. 

Take it from a madman who's whimsically set his world on fire, what's worse than monotonous dullness is the sharp pain far away from your heart's desire. At least I get to rant and moan in peace, before in the kitchen life was an endless disease. If you think it's bad to simply lack purpose, try having to grind, sweat, and bleed, for something you truly believe to be worthless. Still, you can't blame me for complaining. There's no greater regret than a creative drive left unfulfilled. 

If you've ever tasted the magic of purpose, that ineffably satisfying and peaceful feeling of creating something precious. Guided by your heart's compass, perhaps you've filled up a canvas or two, such monstrously righteous glory reserved only for a few of us. While every person has the capacity for creation, it suits well to some, while to others, it just seems dumb. Not to make light of their opinion, I find the idea of driving fun, but the task itself quite cumbersome. Similarly, even Bill Finger, Alan Moore, or Eiichiro Oda might shake in the knees in the face of a piano.

So you see my friends, enemies, and strangers, we do our best and omit the rest, but not without danger. For all my logic, plans, and conniving, I could die tomorrow, leaving my spirit sad and whining. That's why if you can truly afford to do what you want, fucking go for it dude, no matter the cost. The world is crazy and doesn't know gold from rot, so show them the way, and you won't be forgot. To hold on to your creative spirit in this world is a miraculous feat, if you can do it I say you're worthy of conceit.