The Essence of Creativity

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I noticed in horror that 1988 was 20 years ago. This is shocking. I remember 1988.

There is a species of butterfly where I come from that has markings on the undersides of its wings like figures of 8. I remember 1988: I remember picking up one of these butterflies from the ground on a sunny afternoon and asking myself if the markings would change to 89 after New Year’s Eve.
 
Have you always thought of yourself as a creative person? Then I hope for your sake that you do not wake up one morning and see how the minutes stack up on each other and become hours and days and months and years. And decades. Decades of imagining yourself as a creative person, and then finding yourself scrubbing the toilet of your suburban apartment with an expanding waistline and no creative output to speak of. Nights of frittering away your money and your brain, and nothing to show for it but the regurgitation of the previous evening’s curry around your sink plughole. 

I sound bleak. I am not. I am actually rather too lighthearted. Whole lot of good it’s done me. After too many years looking for the best medium in which to express creativity, guess what is left? A few drawings and paintings, a few songs in failed rock bands, some substandard photography, bad poetry, an unfinished novel… Where does it all come from? How can we tap into the pool of the universal subconscious and come up with something that sticks? We all have to start somewhere.

This is a new beginning.

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