There is something impossible to convey in it. The simple and pure act of creation. I’ve heard some describe it as a tsunami yet I’m not sure it really explains the intensity of it, the unrelenting focus of it.
It is as if time itself stops to exist, every lines just replaces it, their need to exist, their need to become more, their need to expand beyond one’s own body, beyond the hands, the eyes, the tip of the fingers and onto canvas, onto paper.
It is as if a quartier inch aside would completely destroy it, vanish its beauty, defeat it’s purpose, render it useless. It is as if the wrong tone could deface it entirely.It becomes that necessary to get it right, make sense of it, let it carry you where it needs to go yet keep it where you wanted it as well. A balancing of power and abnegation that know no equal and have given us every piece of art worth remembering to this day.
There is no vanity in the act, not true art, not true creation. It cannot exist out of a will to please but only can exist out of a will to be.
There is absolutely nothing in the world that compares to it. It truly is that rare.
Those who are aware of it, who’ve become through it, who dared because if, know, in silence perhaps, and alone, most likely, that it is a privilege to live such a moment.
I’ve heard some compare it to an orgasm. It is true, in a way; The separation from body and mind. But an orgasm lasts mere moments where a true creative drive can last you an hour. Both, I would say, are equally exhausting and exhilarating, each at it’s different pace, should you carry through the way it was meant to be lived.
And then there are those you manage to have that one such creative drive during sex and if that is not tantric, then I don’t know what is.
There is simplicity in it, strangely enough. How can one inexplicably speak of simple terms about something that is so rare and sough after by fools running fools errands for millennia.
How can one such goal that drove so many to madness or love or death can be spoken of as « simple. »
Yet it is true and I shall stand by that statement.
In it simplest form, it is nothing else but the disappearance of oneself into something greater for no other purpose at all than to simply live it and feel the entirety of existence become into purpose.
I don’t know if words can really describe it. You have to live it to understand how strong it can be. The madness of it, the genius of it, the way the pen or the brush or the razor blade appears to move by itself as you merely become a vessel to emotion.
Ten thousand pages later I’m still trying to get it just right. And here I find myself typing about it once more perhaps our of ego, in vain, probably, trying to give it it’s proper respect.
And yet, the only thing I can find to say about, again, is that nothing else than the beauty of the woman you love should ever be the object of any greater focus.