Blood, Ink, and Nightshade

I’m going to pick my brain a moment. Prick it with a pen until it absorbs the ink and makes something beautiful. Blood and black blending into deadly nightshade.

Creativity’s a tricky beast. It haunts you, stalks you, makes you feel. I’ve been lured in by its intoxicating scent for more than a decade now. I can track my life back through all that it inspired me to produce and the tortured things that never got the chance to grow.

Creativity slips away. Or that’s how it feels like sometimes. That’s how it feels now. I call but nothing answers. It doesn’t speak to me how it used to. My mind buzzes with the effort, my fingers go numb with the strain, my eyes drowned by the emptiness in front of me. I’m stalling. I flounder. Nothing works.

But creativity is only lost when you don’t chase after it. It never willingly came to me. It never put in the work to stay. Like a light in the dark, it shines brightly. It warms the room. Gives you comfort. You’re surer in your footing as you walk forward. But it vanishes just as quickly. Forces you to stumble and trip as you claw your way out of the abyss. You have to force yourself forward hoping the light will come to you again.

I hope that this small offering, this bit of effort, will bring it home again.

Photo Credit: elqu @ Wallhaven

All Hail The Analog

The written word–truly written, truly inked, truly scribbled. The true master of my thoughts in their truest most imperfect form. The source of midnight maladies that beckon me from my restless rest to give voice to the echo chamber.

The analog. The notebook. The pen.

And as I write these thoughts with fingers that feel and ink that ink, I never question why they are simpler to pen than to type. Tis the power of the analog. The conditioning of the brain to see perfection in the imperfection of hastily written lines and dots. To never wonder their logic, never fully question their fluidity. They just are and forever they will be. No backspace can cause their undoing or harsh line can destroy what once was.

The analog. Beauty hidden within an ugly sketch.

All Hail the Analog.