Daydream Survivor

Hurrah! Hurrah! I had an idea. It’s worth being blocked just for the euphoria of unblockage. I am a sink and now the creativity is flowing through again. Is it a good idea? Actually I’m not sure it matters, what matters is there are words coming out of me again, ideas, images, quite horrible images, but we can’t all be pretty, can we?  It’s even on brief, kind of. Well, I can relate it to a book we’ve read and there are a couple of autobiographical elements; for example I’ve stolen my workplace for the setting.

So…words, words, words. There are still too many daydreams occupying my brain but the story worm is struggling to get known and is carving out some space for itself. I’ve even done some research! Not ‘sit in an archive and look through ancient texts with special gloves’ research, but at least a bit better than Wikipedia. Trepanning, demons, exorcism, Human Resources; as I said, not pretty.

Is it possible to be endlessly creative? Should we indulge our lulls? Anything must be better than my relentless self-reproachment. A bit like hangovers, which, if you’re properly set up for can be as luxurious and decadent as the night before. ‘This week I’m not going to write.’  And should we force ourselves into one art form? Tenacity increases skill, but imagination is a monstrous greedy infant, and I confess I’ve sort of enjoyed letting mine be unchanelled and unwritten recently even when I know sanity must be restored, jobs must be done, shoes must be cleaned, legs must be shaved, nails must be clipped.

Maybe it is about getting back to being an animal. I remind myself I am an animal when I know I’m wrong, I’ve done something irrational, when I’m sad. We might be clever but we’re still driven by animal instincts. And that’s refreshing; maybe I just needed to get my animality back. It’s as refreshing and frightening as looking at the sky when it is full of stars and realising how completely insignificant one is. Less than an ant, a grain of sand, less than dust.