Inspiration can eat away at you sometimes. It can corrode your well being and suck clarity out of the ether that surrounds you. To put it simply. Inspiration can cloud your judgement. Wallowing in self pity can lead to great prose but after those words have flowed out of the tips of your fingers and on to the pad of paper it needs to be expelled. Move on. Find something new. Something sweeter that confounds and compels you to sing. Lingering can bring you no good. Only heartache.
Keep moving. Push yourself. Seek it out.
I sound like a self-help guru.
I haven’t posted in a while for that very reason. My inspiration stagnated. I held on to what I thought was good stuff until it was rotting in my hands. Limp and petty. My anger had gone. So had my need for clarity and closure. There comes a point when you just can’t live in the past anymore. It’s debilitating. Yet when you live in a fog memories and it’s comfortable, calm and sweetly melancholic it’s hard to just say: fuck it. It’s hard to understand why you’d leave.
Then after one too many night of licking your wounds alone on the beach at night. Or telling the same story. Or reading the same passage you realize you’re fading. Pale. Sallow. Weak. That aint no way to live. Worst of all you’re at a loss of words. And that…you’ll think is never a good sign.
So with confidence, conviction and commitment you let bygones be bygones and breathe a sigh of relief and move the hell on with your small, slightly insignificant but nevertheless entertaining life.