I want to do something creative tonight but I’m having a really hard time.

I feel at a loss of words, of original ideas, of any conviction that may push a thought into development.

It’s hell.

But why does this kind of mood come and go at it’s own discretion? The kind of mood that allows your mind to penetrate ideas, crack them open and study them for what they are. To critique what is and disregard false merits, identify fallacy, and bring truths into focus.

It’s a state of mind I could wallow in for eternity. It’s a kind of staggering clarity that makes the world seem so wonderfully neutral yet variable. The evils melt away, the fake triumphs dissipate and you’re left with this archaic landscape in which we’re all floundering around being the animals we are. What a refreshing perspective.

And when I reach this state I can’t help but comment on the lovely madness that surrounds us all. I can’t help but obsess over the subtle nuances in every crack and crevice of this world and why they are the way they are. I write provocatively, honestly, and manage to translate some of this vibrant energy from experience to print.

But then, it’s just gone.

And I sit, taunted by a blinking cursor on a white page and feel disgusted about my indifference to it all. I want to write, yes, but only out of some instrumental plea for the depression and anxiety to relent.

Like right now.

It’s creative inertia. I’m stuck. I try to force the production of content but it’s all in vain because I’m missing that single crucial ingredient: intellect.

I hope she comes back soon.

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