To be at war with myself. I do hate how very much I have a natural urge to create—and yet life’s worries and trivial activities prevent me from doing so. All I want to do is go away, close myself in a quiet room lit well with gray light and create. Why do I have to care about my education? Why do I have to care about my upkeep if there is a creation tugging at the fringes of my brain, omnipresent throughout the day, begging to be allowed to roam free across paper (how very Michelangelo of me)?
I don’t know. I think I care too much about the world and the people in it to be thoroughly engrossed in the act of literary creation. It angers me, because I am torn between two worlds: one in which I work to make peace within the world, and one in which I shut myself away from it. One in which I am generous—but it is exhausting—and one in which I am selfish—but it fulfills me.
Oh, how I've felt the same way. It makes me wonder how other literary giants did it. I imagine them sitting alone at a desk, with slightly meager lighting to work under. Yet at the same time, as you describe, my hobbies and love for everything else in life demands my attention span moreso than sitting at a desk writing an idea that's just begging to be let lose. It's a frustration that's not frustrating: while we still have the ideas, they're not lost to us, even though we may crave to set them upon a piece of paper (digital or otherwise).
Once again, I'm a fan, moreso because I can connect with the piece. Also makes me wonder exactly how many other people, besides you and myself, feel the same way.
Again, you captivate and inspire me. I too, like many of us I'm sure have been torn with the same war within our soul. As a family man myself, and an engineer, my life is quite packed. Alas, I would not trade valuable time with my family to hold myself up in my small office, but at times, I must. They do, fortunately, understand, and allow me that peaceful time.
Again, well written and well said. As below and before, I too am a fan.
Oh, how I've felt the same way. It makes me wonder how other literary giants did it. I imagine them sitting alone at a desk, with slightly meager lighting to work under. Yet at the same time, as you describe, my hobbies and love for everything else in life demands my attention span moreso than sitting at a desk writing an idea that's just begging to be let lose. It's a frustration that's not frustrating: while we still have the ideas, they're not lost to us, even though we may crave to set them upon a piece of paper (digital or otherwise).
Once again, I'm a fan, moreso because I can connect with the piece. Also makes me wonder exactly how many other people, besides you and myself, feel the same way.
To give life you must take life,
and as our grief falls flat and hollow
upon the billion-blooded sea
I pass upon serious inward-breaking shoals rimmed
with white-legged, white-bellied rotting creature.. more..