Inspire how?

Where does inspiration come from? Well there's no special place. It doesn't come from the land of wonderment. It’s a simple aspect of life. Yes, just an aspect of life. It comes from life. It comes from our life experiences. What we experience we write, draw, say or basically express in our own way. What can you draw from if not experiences? Figments of your imagination? Well what does your imagination draw from? Experiences. Yours or someone else’s. But if it isn't yours, how can it really feel true and just? It will remain a figment of forced imagination. And it will be evident. It will be an expression hanging in the air. To feel the words, you really need to feel them. But what if you don't know the different facets of an experience? What if it remains just as empty thoughts?

We need to experience what life has to offer. Experience and grow. And boy does it make you grow. It makes you develop as a person, as a companion and as a human being. The growth of your world unleashes the hounds of imagination within your mind. Let them roam, free and wild. They will hunt for new thoughts. But only because you set them free. Free with your travels, your interactions, your search of work, your search of a high truth, your search of yourself..

Midnight in Paris

Midnight in Paris. A beautiful movie by Woody Allen. And it truly is beautiful. I fell in love with it. The direction, the cinematography, the characters and ahh the music. But most of all I loved the concept. A man who believes that the golden age is long gone, the 1920s in Paris to be precise. Something is lacking for him in the time of the present.

A writer by profession he's lost in the 1920s. Because that is when true talent around the world came together to celebrate life and each other in Paris. Transported at the stroke of midnight, back into the world of Paris in the 20s, he rubs shoulders and ideas with the likes of Ernest Hemmingway, Scott Fitzgerald, Pablo Picasso, Salvador Dali, surrealists, realists, artists and aficionados.. A time, that most would kill to relive. And in turn he falls in love with a woman, who symbolised whatever he loved about Paris in the 20s.

Its not a love story though. Its a story of self discovery and self preservation. Preservation of your mind and soul. What does he discover in the end? That we as humans always believe the past is beautiful and perfect. It strikes the chords of truth. Those in the 20s took the time of belle epoque to be the golden age, who in turn believed the renaissance stood as the time of free imagination. And who knows what the renaissance artists believed..

We are stuck reminscing about a time long gone, constantly wondering why we never make the most of the present. That being, because we can never truly stop comparing. The world gone by, has gone. The present beckons, "Come, I could be intriguing, I could bring a smile to your face, I could free the leash of an unimaginative soul.."

But why do we ignore? Because we already know the magnificence of the past and ignore that, which could be of the present. We say we think about the future, but only what society has laid out for us. What of the path that we intend to build? What of the path that our imagination could build? We need to unshackle ourselves from the past, keeping them as fond thoughts, and take care of this moment.

Our glory days are yet to come, but only if we make ourselves think so.

Wherein lies the problem?

What do you do when you're in a creative field and surrounded by creative people?

You be creative.

Simple? Maybe not. How do you "be creative"? Is it something you can learn? No. Is it something that can be taught? Definitely not. So what do you do? What if the life you have been living has dulled you. What if a mundane life has compelled you to become numb to creativity. Your mind processes only what you're told to.

Then what? Just cover it up, grow a long beard, gaze into the distance and pretend you're "creative"? That could work. Maybe get a pair of thick rimmed glasses and throw in a hat to complete the look. That could fool many. But could it fool you?

What do you do when you feel useless and completely devoid of creative juices? You feel that maybe you're in the wrong place? Or feel you're better off doing that dead end job with that deadening effect on your mind? Those moments of writing and painting as a younger man are glimmers of a distant memory. So what do you do when you feel like you're facing the barrel of that self deprecating shotgun?

You push yourself. You push yourself. Maybe I didn't say it right. You PUSH yourself. And when you're tired, you push yourself more. When you fall down, you pick yourself up and you push more.

It isn't over when you feel you are, its over only when you know you are.

Fare thee well..

It hits you.
The goodbyes, the hugs.
The kiss on the cheek, the handshake.
The slight glisten in the eyes.

The final day of work hits you. Behind all the troubles and all the pain that you might have faced, there lie memories. The good, the bad, the ugly. All forgotten is all remembered. But the good is what really gets you.

The nostalgia, the feelings of never seeing those people. The words of a few wise ones, and more the words of the stupid ones. The laughs, the silent tears, the heart wrenching lectures, the satisfaction of completing a good day’s work, the laughs of a fellow conspirator, the gossip that you never needed to hear.

It pulls at you, pulling you back. Stay, it says. Stay a while longer. You'll be happier. You'll be satisfied. Friends made will not become friends lost. But you can't. You say your goodbyes again. Some, twice over. They deserve it. They touched your life. They touched your heart. And they left their mark. Responding to them with one goodbye is inadequate. Maybe not even two. You leave them, maybe to meet again or not.

But you leave. It’s the way of the world. Your only hope is when you see them again, you know you made a mark in their hearts as well. Your words, thoughts and actions affected others. And you move. Forward. Forward towards others. Making a mark in some other minds. Never forgetting those who you leave now. You move. With behind, remaining memories to cherish. And maybe someday relive.

Heavy lies the mind

With heavy feet, I walk up the stairs,
Wanting not to go that way..
No light nor any beacon flairs,
I get lost in an endless day..

There was a time when I ran up with joy,
oh how that time slowly died..
My mind was broken like a toy,
it hurt inside for how I cried..

Time stops and stands quite still,
no movement on either side..
I feel trapped against my will,
Wondering someday if I’ll ever ride..

Ride away from this wasted stench,
the only smell that fills my mind..
I will twist and turn as a wrench,
no more will I stand with eyes blind..

The thrill is gone..

It’s been a while since I wrote for myself. I really wanted to, but I just couldn’t. I guess that’s the drawback of being in a profession where you are paid to write. When you enter work and are forced to write, a part of you gets caged. “We need to send this out in the next half hour. It’s urgent.” These words become a norm. These words force you to control your thoughts and still force your mind to out your bread and butter. You write to survive. But what survives? A living body feeding a dying mind. What meaning does it still hold?

The value of a word doesn’t come from caging your thoughts. It’s about letting them free. Letting them wander, far and near. Wherever they want.

A sense of freedom.

A sense of evolution.

A sense of creation.

We evolve as people only when we let our thoughts evolve. But I stopped feeling that freedom. My world, my thoughts, my voice croaked. I forgot what words meant to me. If I ever sat down to think, 10 different people in different forms interrupted my thoughts. As I write this, 5 have already come and done so.

I struggled. I really did. I didn’t know what to do, which way to go. Then the answer rang in my ears. Literally. It erupted with a twang, followed with a beat, ran like a wave of tones and lifted my thoughts to me. Music, my only solace.

It has a dramatic effect on my mind. It opens the floodgates and releases my thoughts. It causes a destruction that brings about peace. It’s reminiscent of the great flood. Only those thoughts true to me float aboard the great ark, safe and cared for. It's the only thing worth saving. The rest is laid to waste, swept away, leaving me clean. My thoughts flow free and lucid. They fly, they soar, and they explore lands unknown. And that is where I find my words. They were waiting in the skies above, waiting for me, waiting for me to be free, waiting for the day I came back to me.

A keypad?

A keypad.
Our life?
How?
Well it fits..
All these letters..
They can form anything in our life..
All that we love,
All that we hate,
All that we want to remember,
All that we want to forget.
Numbers add weight to those things..
Some confuse us,
Some simplify for us.
Those symbols..
They express every emotion we feel,
Confusion,
Anger,
Delusion,
Everything is expressed..
Backspace, move back..
We might try, but we still move back,
We always think back..
Our lives are ruled by our past.
Space is a need..
Space to think,
Space to write,
Space to be free,
when you have that space, you Enter into life..

Life...Life is a keypad.