It's been a long time since I've felt compelled to write or sketch anything. For a while I wondered if that part of me was just gone. Lost.
I sort of accepted that the nature of the creative process is that it ebbs and flows, and that I was stuck in a serious creative drought.
Then today, on a late night train coming back from the east bay, something happened–I had idle time to think. My mind was relaxed, and for once I felt the urge to put pen to paper. Lately I've been so hyper-focused on a million other things that I somehow just disengaged with that part of myself.
What happens in between dreams? How do I find my way back to the end of the rainbow? If I never stop to question the path I'm on, does it mean I'm steadfast in my decisions and satisfied with my life's course, or foolish for not thinking there could be other possibilities?
