I have never been scared of running out of ideas. And that scares me.
My ideas all tend to be problems. My writing and my problems share a co-dependency that borders on creative masochism, where the ability to write depends on how flawed I am, and writing becomes a virtue-signaling exercise in feeling better about myself. You know, like what Instagram is to couples.
Creation is an entourage of feelings, an escape from loneliness, an excuse to be an assole — or as it’s most commonly known: self-help. The problem-solving road to creativity means you never really want the problems to go away. To create from this place is useful for the audience because we are all dealing with the same chickenshit and the illusion helps everyone.
It’s why creative pursuits rarely feel joyous. Your ability to make art requires you to have a constant hangover of discontentment. How much should you hate your life if you want everything to change your life all the time?
Creativity falls into this trap because the self-invented problems, self-inflicted pain, and self-important hatred give you a sense of progress. Creating is the adulthood version of a diaper change.
Your misery is not that you force creativity. You force pain so you will be able to create, where everything you do, every experience, every moment, every miracle morphs into an idea that goes into a notebook.
The creative process used to be mystical because it helped you pause to catch a glimpse of something divine, but for it to become a substitute for living is like ripping its heart apart and using it as a bookmark.
Your reality feels so constantly forceful because your entire life has become an idea. It’s why creativity feels like wrestling with yourself all the time. You are trying to improve on a reflection instead of what is reflected.
Creativity is not a quest for ideas. It’s the quest for mystery. It’s always been an adventure, and honor will remain its greatest danger.
To create for yourself does not mean you don’t care what people think. It means to forget yourself so you can remember who you are.
What an idiotic idea to live your life as a means to an end all so you can leave behind a symbol of existence. What agony to be a creator and live a second-hand life. What tragedy to miss the music in search of a message.