On blandness

Do you ever feel so uninspired that good art makes you angry?
Impassioned writing pisses you off.
A poignant image slices open a well of self-loathing.
And yet..you still want to create anyway..
maybe as a way to prove to yourself that you can do it –
that if you force hard enough, you can transform a square into a diamond –
or as a way to jumpstart your creative genes that you know must be there
lying,
in coma,
simply waiting for something to jerk them awake.
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Wherever the urge comes from,
it’s still often no match –
the blandness has a way of permeating,
quieting.
It lays like muslin over grand poppy fields,
crushing petals, stems wilting
from the porous weight.
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Where do you go from here?
the feeling asks.
When a lack of inspiration feels like a personal defect,
when a way out seems far,
the journey; cloudy,
long?
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Where do you go when you are tired of asking questions
and aren’t sure if you even believe in answers?
When life runs away from you
runs away with you
through you,
too,
and all you can do
in the meanwhile
– and maybe it can be a beautiful meanwhile, you think –
is wait,
listening,
for something,
listening all around.

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