So earlier today I had an English Class, not a creative one, just a class on structure and format for nonfiction works. The class while teaching the structures of MLA and other crucial necessities wound down and I ended up leaving thirty minutes early. As I left I met with an old friend of mine and we wondered around campus before he was forced off to class in some subterranean floor: bizarre. Though as we walked we talked of the things friends do- girlfriends, life, bullshit, and then we both agreed on the unease we were feeling of the mundane yet uncertain world we live in. We talked of ourselves and the world of curiosity and apathy and pretty much what we intended to do with our young lives.
I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I’ve noticed when I stray from creativity I grow cold and uncertain. The world I’m faced with everyday is a lot grimmer and coarse without a daily outlet to diffuse and abuse daily activities. For two months I’ve wondered down a shallow path- my fingers became unknown to the cramps and wear of plastic keyboard keys, my guitar grew dust-clad and bored, and my mind fell dormant (well a little bit). This past week I’ve delved deeper into my own work and have begun a campaign of writing, music, and reader to further stimulate my mind. Why does this matter? Well I think creativity is something far more necessary to the state of mind of humans than we give it credit. To escape the dreading day and tiring hours of the night we can utilize our minds to create something from nothing. Never in this world is something created from nothing except when we use our mind and forge ideas and thoughts from abstraction to concrete to reality.
What is writing? But an attempt to discover ourselves wound deep between white spaces in seas of daunting texts and hoping someone recognizes the similarities to draw a parallel. See, I have written since I can recall, because it has been my calling, but now I find it a necessity to express free thought and resume daily life.
I live for creativity, do you?