It happens every so often, I embark on a creative streak. I never understand this exciting facet of my nature. It comes about once biannually and last for several months until the cycle has run its course. I itch, yearn, need to design!
I do not think you full comprehend, I lose sleep and productivity in other aspect of my life go to seed. Suddenly, I become a possessed artist! To draw, color, arrange, paint, pen, design! It is quite . . . unusual. Yet, in some perverse way, I thoroughly enjoy the madness of it all! I spend hours consumed by zealous nature to exhaust myself into a frenzy of all things beautiful.
Case in point, there was a period in my undergraduate studies (I distinctly recall it being junior year) where I was plagued by day dreams of clothes and dresses. It was quite bizarre, but the lack of sleep was becoming an issue. I did my best to placate these creative juices and go about my daily life. Finally, my roommate begged me to go to a doctor or counselor because my insomnia was preventing her to rest. Alas, I trudged to north campus, trying not to think of clothes. The person I talked to suggested I just draw around bedtime and stop when I ceased to be inspired in the moment. The remark was so simple and I felt like a complete idiot for not coming up with it myself. Give in to the creative creature!? What a delicious concept! I took his word and that very night I sat down on my dormitory bed and sketched my little heart out. Page after page, multiple clothes on a single sheet, hour after hour exorcising the demon. I never had so much fun, but it was complete seriousness. I had to do this. Seven and a half hours and two sketch pads later, I was done. The sunrise broke through the mini-blinds, sheets of drawings strewn around my side of the room, taking up the entire bed. My mind was utterly exhausted and had not one imaginative iota left. And what did you know? I slept. Soundly. Dreamlessly. Without a dress in sight. I slept almost an entire day, it was heaven. Upon awaking I glanced down at my pictures and peeled the few that were stuck to my face from slumbering on top of them, scooped up the lot and chucked them in the waste basket. The muse was dead. Daily life resumed once more and my roommate and I slept soundly there after.–How did I become so peculiar???
. . . It is starting again. The nervousness, the twitchy restlessness, the invaded dreams. Not dresses, this time. Desks; writing desks. And color! And paintings! Furniture layouts! It is as if my interior design degree has returned to haunt me! How fitting it should revisit during October, the month of haunts. I have not dueled with the Muse yet on this one. In fact, I am perusing design books. Dangerous, I am aware. Soon enough, I shall battle the creative forces, but for now I am just amusing myself.
Does anyone else “suffer” these delightful creative bouts?