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Why do we take on creativity? There are times of incredible highs, granted. The exhilaration of writing can be far more pleasurable and satisfy than most anything else in life. I understand this.

What about the rest of the time? The time spent wondering if you can ever compose the well-written turn-of-phrase or the impassioned poetry or the complex, sub-plotted novel drives a writer nuts. Ok, this writer.

Times of low productivity breeds pent-up passions alongside waning confidence creating an inner turmoil which roils with unpleasant vibes. This situation lays akin to self-torture without the ability to stop yourself.

Yes, I know, there stands a choice to be made here, but one direction, one choice, says to walk away from writing (creating), the other demands you dive in heart first. Neither option appeals at all thanks to the wilting confidence and the knowledge that stepping back into the mundane world could possibly become your life’s absolute worst decision.

What to do then? Write an absurd blog post like this? Yes. Write anything and everything? Yes. Write nonsense? Yes. Write off-topic from all the projects you know you desire to take on? Yes.

Whatever it takes.

No need for paragraph lengthening on that one – simply whatever it takes.

I sometimes must begin here: I am in one of the following two camps – 1) I am alive on Earth for a reason or 2) I am a breathing accident and the universe truly does not anthropomorphize into some cosmic being hell-bent on my karma, destruction, or reward.

Scenario #1 drives me to use my voice. My writer’s voice. The one that screams like an impassioned lover’s climax when I release the words from fingertip gates or whimpers in dank, dark seclusion swirling serpentine out the sewer of my fingertip spillways.

Scenario #2 forces a more pragmatic view of life, one that leans so heavily on anarchy and chaos that reward and satisfaction plummet into pits of despair and nonexistence. Why? Because if there is no reason to be here, what good is love? If there is no love, then creativity becomes simply a life distraction, signifying nothing.

No dust of answers will be disturbed in this writing, I assure you. No fine particles of truth will flit through cerebral air to find resting place in the mind’s eye this night. Simply musings and a struggle to find that voice that believes. That voice that springs to life. That inner voice who propels my life forward in the sincere thought/hope that anything I say or do translates into something of value for some person somewhere.

Time for bed…

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