Regret Of Creativity

So here is another piece that resonates, prods, churns, even inspires.

We seem to have evolved into a society of mourned and misplaced creativity.

Though I suppose you inspiration is only really such if actually moves you to do rather than only to want to do. Of course, I am not suggesting that one's own laze or inertia reflects badly on the source of inspiration. That reflection, of course, is all one's own to deal with.

It is called, after a quote from one Charles Bukowski, "Find what you love and let it kill you."

chance

A beautiful short film :

Crushed

Do you know that feeling when you see or hear a beautiful creation? The very depths of you touched by someone’s vision or desire or passion or hate or madness, or love? It feels so pure, so true, so powerful.

Yet it sometimes also feels so belittling. The power of the art towers above you, speaking for no one but itself, yet speaking to so many. And you look up, dwarfed by its existence, crushed by your own. Enamoured by its reason, disenchanted by your own. Swept away by its truth, swept aside by your lie.

take a look

Sometimes I see some things that inspire with their beauty and achievement; but also make me feel a bit tiny, and rather underwhelmed about myself. Nevertheless, Prashant Miranda's blog/work- which I, inexplicably and stupidly, forgot about following for a few months now- is outstanding and wonderful to go through.
So go now.

And talking of achievement, how's this for something that is a student project? Committing two whole years- while probably needed for something as ambitious as this- is wholly admirable in itself. Take a look.

meandering

It was not that life was meandering, it was I.
The laughter, the tears, the pride, the indignation, the love; they all brought inspiration, carried on a wind begging for effort and change; swept away by a breeze of indifference and inaction.

That one day, I remember, was burning hot. At least by my by-then softened standards. The searing heat burnt through the sunscreen and prickled my neck. I clutched a bottle of water in my hand as I walked under shade-less trees and brown streets. The deserted street seemed full of life- it was as if the emptiness of the surroundings was bombarding my mind with inspiration.
But I walked on, unwittingly insistent on letting the inspiration smoulder and wither in the heat. And so I did. The little flames of ideas burnt out. Gleaming points of insight faded away. Crystal clear pools of understanding evaporated.

And I was left walking, looking merely for shade again.

inspired dullness

It is so easy to get used to things.

Laze sits fatly- below me, around me. Cushioning the fall, so to speak, as I settle into its beanbag-ish comfort, sinking in. Sometimes my sloth rises, waddles about and stares pointlessly at the walls- the nothingness they have to offer. Such enchantment, I tell you, this being at a loose end is. Then, after a numb-like walk-around that has as many non-thoughts as this sentence does hyphens, I recline in a nonsensical combination of creativity and dullness- recline in a rocking chair from the past. As its silent, and silently indulgent, lullaby gently rocks me, I know some more inspiration has gone in its own sleep.

Cheery, aren’t I.