The process is one of constant death, in my humble opinion. You have to figure out how to generate perpetually, even if it means destroying parts of yourself.
Sometimes, if you don't generate, those same parts destroy themselves on their own. It's a strange space we have to occupy.
I've drank or smoked or gone without sleep or food or water or sex for inspiration. It hurts, but it helps. Creativity is a painful process, one that requires a certain amount of willingness to
endure the worst for what may not even turn out good. The best is something none of us can achieve, and yet we strive for it. I'll drown for an idea.
I'll jump off a building if it means I can describe falling that much more accurately. I'll fall asleep and forget to wake up and wake up and forget to fall asleep
I'll stare at walls or screens or pages or anything blank a hunger to fill it gnawing at my insides
and when I can't fill the void with words or feelings or sounds I'm filled with emptiness.
This is how deafening silence can be, how soothing the harshest noise can feel, how calming turbulence can be, how frightening stillness is.
We search for meaning in words, knowing that words mean nothing. We all know their “uselessness,” Harjo says. So why do we continue?
How could we/I not?
this poem is based on/inspired by a poem called "bird" by joy harjo as well as the ideas i wrote about in my king cobra post.
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