I’ve lost all sense of creativity in my writing.
Even my fiancé mentioned that it had lost it’s zest ever since I met him.
It’s no wonder that I had a dream the night before of him watering down my oil paintings.
It’s true what they say, artist creates his or her best work during the state of depression.
And quite honestly, I’m overly content.
So, we were sitting there on the edge of the catamaran — on the waters of peninsula papagayo — and discussing how I can trigger back my depression — for just a month — so I can create a novel.
“Let’s do it on the month of January in Innsbruck.”
“No, you wouldn’t like Innsbruck in October.”
“That’s the point!”
“No, try Iceland … they barely get any daylight.”
We sat under the sun that was slowly setting. Describing ways I could get into full blown depression — yet maintain our relationship.
I suddenly began to imagine myself locked up in a darkly lit room, smoke clouds filling the air — and me, severely pale, out of shape, eyes drooping — yet, creating the best masterpiece: my life into a living art.
Because it is, it simply is. Every adventure — cheap thrill. The mishaps, the characters, the danger– the hell. The beauty into stepping into heaven.
Everything is more beautiful now with these treacherous — yet thrilling experiences.
Yet, the thing about creating words to paint a story is simply this: it’s daunting on one’s energy.
There are parts of my past that — at this moment…are difficult to revisit. I’m still healing from it all.
And I’ve gotten so far, that I can’t possibly divert back into the dark.
So, what does one choose: to die for the arts? Or to survive, heal — and move on?