When you want to draw something, but there isn’t an image in your head….you want to write something, but you don’t know what…you want to do something beautiful, to transcend the normal and the irrelevant, to make something that means something. Those moments are at once the most frustrating and the most beautiful I can think of, because there can be no failure, no watering down. They can last for a few seconds or a few hours, but as soon as you put pen to paper it’s far too late. There’s no way anything you can make in the world can possibly match up to that sublime feeling, and yet other people manage to conjure up these moments for you with a few words or a snap of a shutter, so it must be possible, surely? It doesn’t matter, anyway. As soon as you think about it, as soon as your inability to release it or your fear of seeming pretentious or your own failings start to clutter your thoughts, it’s gone. I want to spend longer in the space of beautiful frustration, but it’s such a fragile state, it collapses the moment you touch it. It takes so little to reach it and so little to break it, and it pushes at you with compressed emotion and it almost literally hurts, but at the same time it is euphoria.
Then it’s gone. What a bitch.