I have been inspired by a painting, a monologue, a pattern, the fallen leaves, a dark basement, and the cityscape at dusk.
I have been inspired by my dirty daydreams, thought of what ifs and ideas that I wouldn’t want to be caught reading about on the bus, and turned them into poems, short stories, chapters in a book unwritten.
My thought often turn to lives of the past – what it smelled like to be running down these cobbles as the church clock stroke 9, the cold air cutting her lungs as she clutched onto the many layers of skirts, unorthodoxly showing her ankles just so she can be saved from the chastising she would get for ruining her clothes on top of ditching her chaperone?
Did the night sky pulse the same way when the view I’m admiring did not include these shops, and that building was never even dreamed of?
Did the person who put brush to canvas have one or two sugars in his fourth coffee the morning he declared his work completed?
I often feel my creativity resides in my mind. The only potentially adequate means I found for its expression is by writing about things that occur to me, but I always feel the sting of unoriginality, the fear of overly personal being linked back to me… And although I censor my thoughts less nowadays, I still censor my fingers.
Other methods such as drawing or painting, be it on paper, canvas, glass or fabric, have never turned into anything I would be satisfied with.
I want to write about what inspires me – and that involves my life, the world I see it. To avoid being caught, to avoid having to be responsible for these words, I try to distance myself, but how could I write about something authentically if I never knew them?
The diary of Emily comes to my mind, how she, Charlotte and Anne chastised each other for writing about topics neither of them really knew about back then, namely marriage and love. I feel these urges at times, that I can totally understand X for doing this, Y for feeling like that, even if I have never been in their shoes. I should take those moments and turn them into an opportunity for discovering something new, but instead, I often suffocate the shadows of a muse, and go on pretending like I can function without the opportunity to explore.
Creativity, it seems, is important to me. I find inspiration in the dust dancing in the sunlight after a sudden movement awoken it. I am curious about the story behind that bag she tries to juggle on her shoulders in the queue waiting for the bus – what did she consider crucial to place in it before setting off in the morning?
I should be brave, and take these opportunities by their throats, and sit them around my room until I can take the time to examine them. I might learn about myself in the process as well.