As a child I was very creative. All I needed was a piece of paper and a pen or a pencil and I could create entire worlds with my imagination. I would draw fantastic creatures, funny personages and landscapes with the art of scribbling down words that would form sentences to eventually grow into pages and pages full of more words and sentences. Or I would just paint it, or sketch it and all together it would eventually become interesting half finished stories.
The inspiration to come up with these fantastic worlds just bled out of me like a gushing wound. Driven by the will and need to hide from reality, to create a world that seemed so much more interesting than the world I was living in myself. My motivation was anything, but usually sourced out of a well of feelings that were not necessarily positive spirited. Dark emotions, coming from a dark place deep within. A dark place that I can still access today but cannot use as a source of inspiration any longer.
Now that I am older, I find myself longing to be able to create again. Longing to be able to escape reality by creating worlds that are better than the one I live in now. But…. Back then, I was able to go blank and just turn deep within myself and pour open the wound of hidden scars and drama to be able to create something nice. But… Now… I think I have misplaced my inspiration.
Perhaps it is because I grew older. Perhaps it is because I grew colder. Perhaps it is because the well of inspiration I used for a resource has finally run dry. Because my inspiration now should not come from what made me cry. Nor should it be from what made me want to hide. My source of inspiration should be to want to move on with life and to try and try and try.
God, inspire me this time.