I desire to reach deep inside this murky soul and grasp my still heart in a desperate attempt to squeeze life from its drying form. Is it not the heart that beats life into the soul, which in turn is the inspiration for an artist's creation? Without creation, is the artist not reduced to a shadow of the soul that once ignited his or her dreams into reality?
I feel the stagnation of thought, rolling through a barren mind-scape where once flowered a garden of possibilities. Does not the dried earth cry out for liquid sustenance to rejuvenate its lush beauty, to be resplendent with life? When the embryonic breath of rain finally descends, will it strip away the layers of neglect to reveal all that could be?
I must strive to find the passion that seems to have abandoned the entirety of my existence, leaving me with but a handful of muted sensations to carry me through the days. Is it not a pantomime to laugh or cry but only feel a minuscule of what the countenance expresses to outside eyes hungry for your emotional comfort? Without feeling, does the path not lose its purpose, breaking apart from its intended destination into a murky realm of empty stillness?
~17th of November, 2015~