I run up and down the stairs, sing my favorite opera song, type my essay on a typewriter, and still nothing happens.
Should I be upset that I am still the same, that my brain hasn't exploded and have ideas flood my head like a typhoon?
I never could summon my soul when need be. It likes to be alone as if it is a daughter who has a non understanding father. It closes the door shut and will never be reasonable.
It always seems to be bad before the good. My brain is like my mouth in that neither have a filter and I've always wondered is there some place I can buy one??
I succumb to Pogo sticking in my front yard, licking the fur of my dog, and dancing like a lunatic.
But it never works.
I start to wonder "why does nothing I think of ever work".
I lose hope and maybe I am not creative!
This is not meant for me, it's for that other guy down the street that takes weird pictures of his muscles.
Because he has an art gallery,
and I don't.
The hardest part of being an artist is not thinking but remembering.
Remembering what it felt like
and the rush that filled my veins
how I could ever live without this feeling
Remembering Creativity.
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