The most curious thing about us humans is how we struggle, even when all of our needs are met. Even when we have what we thought we wanted. We are the only creature that can divorce itself from its own body through the mind. We create things that we imbue with meaning. We carry complex ideas for generations. We write in languages. We believe things that can’t possibly be facts. We trust our guts. We see pictures in our heads. And we make things to connect our inner and outer worlds. Is that what creativity is, the struggle to mend the divide between our minds and bodies? Is it therapy? Is it instinct? Is it madness? Or all of the above? I have never been comfortable doing nothing for too long. I often think that I just want to relax and watch television, but I feel compelled to make things. New things. Express new ideas, connect disparate elements together, distill and bottle oblique ideas in concentrated mixtures of various potencies. It’s not for pleasure. It’s not for fame. It’s because I simply have to do it. There is no other explanation. My struggle isn’t a work/life balance, as most people describe it. My struggle is a work/life/create balance. And it’s less of a balance than a splicing of DNA… it’s like The Fly, but less gruesome and more rewarding. But at the same time, I have no idea what it will eventually turn into. wo/fe/ate/li/rk/cre
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.
~ Leonard Cohen, “Anthem”