The block. The freeze. The muse gone on holiday…. Whatever you call it, it is the thing that stops you painting or drawing, writing .. Or whatever you do artwise… It is the position of just not wanting to do anything. The all encompassing nothingness when you try to put pen to paper.
It is the time the canvas appears a mile wide of whiteness. The blank white stares back at you until you throw it back down, or retreat to another room where it can’t mock you.
It is the knot in the chest as you realise your imagination died, or is in a coma.
Whatever you call the fear in your heart as you feel bereft… Almost grieving. Yes. Grieving for something lost. Gnawing at you. Telling yourself that you may as well put everything away.
Then suddenly, a glimmer. A small idea. You rush to grab out the brushes again but, by the time the tube is squeezed, it’s gone again like a wisp of smoke. A distant inkling, like a dream you sort of remember in the morning but… No… Not quite.
Whether it’s a day. Or a year. The feeling is the same for both. A yearning for something once had but now unobtainable.
The block. The lack of muse. The big freeze.
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