Let not demons linger
Doubt not your inner-strength
Heed your natural patterns
And another’s love shall find thee.
Inspiration, oh inspiration, where art thou?
This is the crassest of creations – a writing about writing thing. I hope it will go somewhere productive.
Already the nature of inspiration is being questioned. It sounds like a think separate from us, passing through us: I have become inspired.
In moments of uninspiration, then, is inspiration not there?
I feel that inspiration of all things should be the final nail in the coffin of intellectual property; the person who wrote the something doesn’t truly know where the idea came from. They were but a conduit, or a node, of inspiration.
Good habits and writing discipline will sure make things flow out more easily. But when the well is dry, it is truly dry.
Creativity itself is under attack in the society of the Pound Stirling. If something has no utility on the market, it is child’s play, or a mere hobby. Things need to be created to be sold.
I have no inspiration to make things for sale. The smith forges a hundred tools and throws them over his shoulder. Let whoever finds them, find them.
Nothing should be done unless it is what one wishes to do. We all have core beliefs, and we all have the capacity to override or live up to those core beliefs. Every day millions toil in servitude to sustain a machine they neither understand nor care for. I don’t want my inspiration to come at the expense of their souls, nor mine.
My inspiration is antagonistic. Not always, but often. Force has to come from somewhere.
The most prevalent and obvious source is all around us – the depravity so taken for granted by so many. This is a vice closing around the soul, and one that we must all collectively and individually strive to avoid being crushed by.
I have no inspiration today. Not to play music, nor to continue my great works. These things are in truth beyond my ability to grasp. That is why they are like magick; mana from the immanent heavens.
They will come back again, or they won’t. It is ok either way. Something always comes to fill the void.
Rather then lament the lack of inspiration, it is better to see it as the Winter of the soul. Even the muses and the naiads and the fey need to rest.