Strange as it may be when I pick up a pen or begin typing I very rarely know what I am going to write. Most often I am just flooded with billions of important topics racing through my mind. At times it’s as if I suffer from A.D.D or some sort of memory loss. If I don’t get to a piece of paper and pen quickly enough I lose all valid interesting thoughts or concepts. When I say lose I do mean gone forever. My imagination can either be over active or lame and lifeless which is most frustrating. Writers block they call it. There are days when I feel so strongly about something I know I must write about it. I must put it into words. It needs to be recorded for humanity’s sake. I’ve learned I must feed that fire less it will fizzle and a part of me dies far before its existence each time. The problem is feeling and thinking are exact opposites. When emotions run deep in the moment, true and steaming with passion, the words just melt onto a screen or paper as if they were tear droplets falling from your cheek uncontrollably. There is no thought process, it just happens naturally. Literature in likeness to most art seems to take on its own livelihood and the author is the vessel used to convey it. Sentence after sentences of thought and emotions gush out like a damn that has been broken by force, there is no stopping the current. When deep rooted long-term suppressions of heartache, anger, empathy, loss or love surface through suppressed memory of emotions or thought, though slightly receptive to small glimpse of events coupled with an uneasiness I find these are the things we are most haunted by. These are the stories, the poems we need to write about most.
Personally, I am literally so overwhelmed with such passion and emotions some of which have been suppressed for such long periods of time that I find myself clinging to poetry to express what I just cant seem to express through analytical or non analytical, straight forward literature without dredging up the possibly harmful emotions attached to those suppressions. I imagine the same artistic disability plagues all artists. These are the days of poetry. If the words aren’t pouring out of me like a familiar, highly relatable catchy song written with pure free thought and emotion then I feel as though I must pry the words out from a place I had once disowned. Until I successfully accomplish this in a way that it is justifiable to all of the elements that caused my suppression, I am cursed. Cursed with what you may identify as writers block.
Only it isn’t the writer that has hit this dead end. A true lyrist could easily continue to write about any given topic at any given time. An artist however, chooses to write artistically with a talent of expression that is genuinely all their own. An artist paints pictures, creates sculptures, designs the unseen and brings it life. So I ask you, are you a lyrist, a journalist, a writer, a poet or are you an artist?
Artists do not sing, dance create music, paintings, drawings, designs or write for money and fame. Artists do what we do out of pure love in the hopes that it might pay our bills yes, but more so to inspire others to be and share with the world and generations to come what is righteous, unadulterated love from within themselves to the rest of society. In doing so affectively we gain respect appreciation, admiration and an income to a lot us to continue to peruse a very worthy cause.
-An Infinite Light.