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FromSometimes, it’s easy. But otherwise, I struggle. I struggle to complete a sentence, to stop making squiggles but brushstrokes, to fill in my letters with colour, for ideas to complete what I’ve started, for perfecting doodles. Sometimes, all I want is to shut myself in my room and keen for my lost voice; to anticipate and think and think and think but why don’t my ideas formulate into colours, into words, into images. Why’s it so difficult? And then I’d keep asking, “What have I got myself into?” On days like these, my sunrises are slower and prettier and calmer. I see art everywhere on these days, on broken mirrors, paint peelings, on pencil shavings. These days I look around but not create. I take things slow, I relax, and drink in every moment like a glass of ginger ale- stirring, aerating and sipping- absorbing everything little by little.
There’s the necessary plunge in guilty pleasures- the extra hour window-shopping on Amazon, the lazy feet that refuse to get out of bed, the spoon of cream or honey stirred into my cup of green tea, the extra bar of chocolate, a huge helping of banana chips, stuffing milk powder into my mouth, leaving clothes in the laundry, refusal to attend to calls, ordering in dishes, the scrolling and downloading on Pinterest, staring at the page of my current read and reading the same line over and over and not understanding, refusing to be out of the shell.
Well, not all days have to be productive. And then, I get into the trance- the momentary spontaneous overflowings, then it’s create and create and create and create: emotions into ideas into images into words and colours. Is it so easy because it was difficult? p.s. The picture is of my hostel room, and I miss it terribly. Also, the outside view helped clear my mood swings, and any blocks I had. Guess everyone has a space they ooze into relaxation.7 hours ago · Public · in