Sometimes inspiration is there - fiery and overflowing with a fury, and sometimes it buries itself in dark crevices, forgotten corners, and the chasm of some undeterminable surface. Such a temperamental, transient thing - edifying and enlightening, but at times inhibiting - coming and going as she pleases. Hours spent sitting pen in hand, laptop in lap, fingers on keys - typing wayward nonsense and waiting for an inkling of poetic flow to show itself to the screen.
When I illustrate my writing, sometimes the art comes first, and the words flow from it. Other times I read some piece and an image appears in my mind. They complement each other, as if they were born soulmates, just waiting to be united on a blank, faded sketchpad.
But for the moment I've come up dry. I picked out a few lines from the poems, generated new ones that felt lacking or as if the phonetics just didn't seem to find the right fit. I drew this sketch and cant seem to find the right words to embody the essence of it. Sometimes creative inspiration is just this way. Art is its own animal.
I love the image on its own - its something that just hints at the subject, and leaves a lot to the imagination. It's soft and fragile, as if its drawn on paper made of porcelain.
I played with a few lines:
"and even laying here, in a state of blasé and mundane, feels like poetry next to you."
"..lying in the bed we shared, somehow closer to the stars..."
"there is beauty in your stillness, serenity in your silence, and an art to doing absolutely nothing in pure bliss"
I feel like they are all pieces of the same poem that has yet to be written. Colors of paint that have yet to be blended in a way that makes them make magic out of the madness we feel. That's all art is anyway. Trying to makes sense by picking up where the scientists left off. Searching for rhyme, reason, or relief ....or maybe for some sense of conclusion.