On Writing, Inspiration, and other Matters of the Like

I speak upon my struggle in writing.

Self: "So, what's on your mind right now?"

Me: "Oh, a whole myriad of things (as always)."

Self: "Anything specific?"

Me: "Well, currently I have been lacking motivation, in my writing that is."

Self: "Why do you think that is?"

Me: "For a lot of the time, it's distractions that tend to sap it out of me. It would seem my desire is for the mind-numbing properties of these things. It's sort of a amnesiac, yet I still wonder why I devote so much of my time to them."

Self: "A necessary question to ask. Why do you think you have such a strong desire and tendency to go to these amnesiacs?"

Me: "Well, for the most part, I believe the reason to be that I ind the world that I live in to be one or a combination of several things: boring, nonsensical, painful, confusing, harsh, guilt-filling, disturbing, hopeless, etc. It helps, but now...it seems they have devolved into an addiction. Yet, that is not what we are currently discussing, but this is what does lead me into my point about my writing."

Self: "Interesting, we shall have to discuss addictions later, but I agree that we should proceed with the issue about your writing. Please continue."

Me: "I shall. Writing for me is a passion that brings great joy to my heart whenever I am engaged in the activity. I have been told many a time that I have talent as a writer and as am encouraged to keep at it. Yet, I seem to lose my drive at times. I write solely from inspiration. And with that inspiration I add coherent thoughts and ideas that provide structure and form to my inspiration, which is then produced as a work of mine. But it would seem that recently I have been lacking in inspiration and therefore have lost the desire to create anything. It almost feels as if I am dead inside."

Self: "Why do you think that is?"

Me: "I...I wish I truly knew. But I believe it to be a simple...I...really don't know, do I?"

Self: "It would seem that way. Do you have any plans for retrieving it?"

Me: "Possibly, but they currently go along the lines of waiting until I see someone else produce something great and well-loved, leaving my heart in a jealous and desirous state. For when I look upon such a work, whether it be art or another piece of writing, I think to myself, "I can create such a thing of such stature and quality. I can, and I will. I can become inspired and be set to work. What I will do will become as great as what they have done."

Self: "Has that worked for you?"

Me: "I would like to say yes, but...I wish that such a thing would work. It has before I believe. I find myself admiring these works and then, after becoming inspired, I move to whatever medium is most easily accessed to begin. But then...ha, it's quite laughable...then it just seems to flee from me. It drifts off into the winds of doubt and forgetfulness, never to become words. No matter how many times I try, no matter how many works I observe, my 'inspiration' is aborted before it can even see the light of day."

Self: "Do you believe it might last longer depending om what you look at?"

Me: "Possibly. I find that I gain more inspiration from observing a piece of art rather than a written work. Art, good art that is, can fill me with high minded thoughts that I greatly desire to translate into some written work. The images presented in the artworks act as a sort of imagination fuel for which I then began to attempt to form into some grand story. This process of creation, this process of finding beauty per se, I take immense pleasure in. My gears of creativity grind together in such harmonious ways to produce musical words that I hope to be appreciated by all. I hate to have such a wondrous thing taken, no stolen, from me. An act this vile is what empties my mind and deadens my heart."

Self: "A sad thing, truly. Friend, I can say that I am wholly sorry for your destitute state. Death of the heart and mind is worse than the most torturous death itself, for it is something one must continually live with."

Me: "Heh, a thing I know all too well. Tell me, what is it you think I must do to solve this most painful of conundrums?"

Self: "I do not know, my friend. But then again, you are talking to yourself."