An Idea is born…
A new thought or an old one wearing a fresh new fragrance garbed in satin. It steamrolls across the canvas of the mind, zooming-in, all guns blazing to a conclusion it is desperately counting upon us to come to. We roll with it as far as we can, before one of us loses the other. Some distant corner intricately cultivates our combined demise, our infinite fall from glory.
It is a study of the self, to derive how we conceive, perceive and deceive our own creation.
How is it born?
How do we kill it?
Why the trembling nuance of an idea hidden within the manifold layers of language and cornered by culture is killed in conception? Why the feeble fetus of original thought is beaten and buried during its oh-so fragile pre-natal phases?
“Dim it down, Cut the corners, Sell it.”
Too Bold
Not bold enough
Too pretty
Not pretty enough
Too wordy
Not wordy enough
Too abstract
Not abstract enough
Too smart
Not smart enough
Too Naïve
Not naïve enough
Too Happy
Not happy enough
Too Sad
Not sad enough
Stupid, incompetent, amateurs…how dare you call yourselves creators! When will you learn?
What you call life flows and follows in the cracks, the valley, the in-betweens, the shallows, the half-times, the breaks, the procrastinating middles of any and everything, the Grey’s.
I, Inspiration as I draw my dying breath ask of you, Sons and Daughters of Adam and Eve, of what use are your sight, mind and soul if they are closed to cracks and crevices.
When will learn not to speak to say?
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