I don’t always struggle, but there are times that I do. Looking at a white blank page struggling for inspiration. My creativity and pen's ink restrained. I often sit and stare asking myself, “where should I start, with a dot, or line? Maybe a shape? What shape? Maybe a triangle or a square.”
I decide to go forward with a square. But then I start thinking again. “How big should the square be? Maybe it should be flipped onto on an angle, but not so it becomes a diamond. Ugh, I don’t know.” I draw a triangle instead.
I often find myself trapped in this black hole of over analyzation. It's force ebbing past the confines of my creative sphere into almost all aspects of my life. “That boy only texted me back ‘sure sure.’ He obviously hates me and doesn’t want to hang out or see me again.” It is frustrating, it really is.
That blank page is so overwhelming at times. At others, familiar. My mind and hand just take over, creating beautiful compositions that flow with such ease and grace from my pen. As I slow to that climactic finish, I finally wake.
I don’t know why I struggle so much at times. But I think I am starting to understand what makes those other times so free of mental constraint. There is a story I am trying to tell. Not one constructed through word but made up of visual metaphors.
There is always a story to be told and no canvas is ever truly blank. There are shadows, specks of dust, and imperfections. Which in itself tell a story. I add my own story, building onto what was there before.