C.R.E.A.M.

The Option Period

I refuse to look at templates, guides or tutorials on how to write poetry or scripts. There seems to be a predetermined idea of how things are to be universally recognized and displayed, which I feel inhibits the essence of a blank canvas. This rather cynical or lazy view has prevented me from carrying on with my somewhat creative mid-teen phase, a time when I seemed to have a popular journal (on ye olde GreatestJournal.com) with followers ranging from close friends to the random passer-by. I used to spur out off-the-cuff rants about my feelings and all the annoyances that came with life, with poetic openers that I spent the walk to and from college obsessing over, revising and revising, re-thinking and observing, mentally, over and over - how would this person react to it? how would that anonymous reader feel about it? This will sound rather pretentious, but I feel as though I had some ability to arrange words in great way; it felt as though there was some dying strand of talent in my gene pool that related to words and creativity. This phase was fueled by a rather deep obsession with a couple of girls, as well as the music that I was pumping through my veins and the idle wonderment that always came naturally to me. It was a recipe that allowed for a constant source of inspiration, unlike I had ever felt before.

However, with the demise of GreatestJournal.com and the innate ability of mine to 'quit when I start getting good at something', resulted in a rather gradual decline in any creative output on my part. When college finished and I found myself working behind a till during my gap year, the structure of my soul was inevitably cracking at a rapid rate. I miss those days, greatly.

Today, although I would like to grasp that old ability of creating through words, I find myself reaching a dead-end, very quickly. I am so uninspired, so void of feeling. When I look out the window of this library and see far off into the distance, with the morning haze exposing the contours of the dipping landscape and the wickets of the cathedral knifing through and single birds launching from dead branch to brick wall - I become filled with inspiration. Each season brings with it a new weight of comfort and happy melancholy, but I cannot keep it. It escapes me so quickly. Passion has become has a volatile entity to me now.

Its as if my insides have died.