the tale of a human unable to live

Once upon a time, my creative space resembled a blooming garden, where every idea was like a bright, delicate flower blooming in the sun. I immersed myself in thoughts, like in the sweet aroma of early morning roses, and every word, every sentence was born in the silent embrace of inspiration. But, as happens in life, summer gave way to autumn, and my "garden" began to die.

At first it was a slight melancholy - a couple of lost lines that did not want to connect, withered, like frozen flowers from the first frosts. I tried urgently
My evenings, previously full of inspiration and strength for creativity, now turned into endless hours of emptiness. I looked for inspiration in old books that used to cause me a storm of emotions. But even bright colors became faded, dreams, like leaves, dead. I began to feel like a stranger in my own world, and this awareness pierced me like a cold blade that was put to my throat, this impossibility of doing anything even if I really wanted to...

Every time I sat down at the table, my heart trembled with fear: what if I can no longer write? These thoughts did not leave me. It can be compared to the smell of fresh paint that leaves no trace, like those pages

that were once full of meaning, turn into white canvases - dead, unable to tell a single story.

Despair strengthened its embrace, and yet there was a decision to take a step back, to leave everything as it was. I wandered the streets, looking for closeness with nature, with people. In them I looked for sparks that could rekindle my inner fire and inspiration for creative "feats".

And one day, standing on the bridge, I noticed how the water, sparkling in the sun, catches all the shades of the sky. It flowed, unhurriedly, enveloping each pebble, as if it had woven the missing threads. This simplicity in the moment gave me insight: inspiration is like water. Sometimes it is interrupted, but there is always a new flow, a new path, a new approach.

From that moment on, I understood: there is no need to be afraid of emptiness. Emptiness is not the end, but the beginning of something new that can be started from scratch. I will return to my “garden” of creativity to

tend to it, to support it. There will be a time when new flowers will sprout, when the melody of words will sound again. But for now, I am simply observing, learning to perceive the world as it is, opening my heart to all shades of life - both shadows and light, drawing inspiration from the environment around me, and then I can return to creativity again with the right amount of experience, strength, and inspiration.