For me, writing is cyclical. There’s a time for tremendous output, which is then followed by a time for contemplation. During such time, I read more and write less.
Over the past two weeks, I’ve felt the urge to pick up my paintbrush again. Deep inside, I’ve long suspected that I’m more of a painter than a writer. Painting was an important aspect of creativity back during my three year writing block.
I loved being able to share a vision instead of just a thought.
My desire to pick up my paintbrush again has to do with the idea that there are some things that shouldn’t be expressed through words. Secret knowledge should remain hidden to those who aren’t observant.
More and more, I’ve considered the past seven years to be a kind of aberration. It’s nice to have room to create now, without the influence of the "other".
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