Wound

We are artists. We are a unique breed. For the rest of the world, pain is bad. For us, the ache can become our relief. The emptiness can be our sustenance. When we experience pain, we feed on the emotions in order to create. Our creativity is bred through our sufferings, as well as our joys.

The trouble comes, when we begin inflicting our own wounds. The tortured artist stereotype is a cliche´ for a reason. The terror that comes when we hit a dry spot can have other adverse effects including self sabotage. I’ve seen it happen in friends, and in myself. We know that stress, pain, trials produce a sort of creative swell that eases our fear, so we inflict these wounds in order to invoke the muse. We knowingly walk right back into the torture chamber from which we’ve escaped. There is a twisted security in our discomfort.

I am learning that my muse attends to me in cycles. Like myself, my muse is capricious, unpredictable, but always returns. I’m learning that I don’t have to create drama to create. The joy I am finding is this: the tone of my art is more varied and organic when I stop climbing back into the cage and let life freely carry me forward. My muse has more freedom to inspire on such a wide plane.

Sometimes, in our desperation to create, we create our own conflict, but if we allow the ebbs and flows of life to carry us where they will and trust the river to bring us back around, each of us will find the inspiration available when the time is right and that muse will, once again, begin dancing in the corners of our minds.

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