Seriously. I hate running reports. I like looking at the results of a run but I hate running reports. If it wasn’t for reruns of spicks and specks and reruns of dr who.. I would have gone mad by now. mad. mad. mad.
This evening I was criticised for complaining about the lack of opportunities to be creative in my life at the moment.
“How can you complain that you don’t get to be creative when you aren’t creating anything. If you love it so much, why do you spend so much time reading the Internet or watching TV? Surely you should be creating things.”
So here I am creating a blog post. It is a creation, of sorts. It wasn’t here before now.
Is that really being creative though? To me, rambling here is not exercising creativity even if it is creating something. My life used to exist on paper, lots of oddly shaped pieces of paper with crazy scrawled verse and thoughts all over them. Angels and wildflowers poking through the dark coloured scratchings of crayon or high flying unicorns complete with thick tendril like eyelashes curling into impossible splashes of paint. Now it is this, sterile, universal tap tap tap on the keyboard. Nothing rhymes or chimes or sings or smiles. A plateau of perfectly ordinary.
I’m supposed to be happy about all my achievements, about the perfectly ordinary plateau but from up here there is no where to go, just wander around aimlessly and eventually head down again.
Alternatively, I could expend some creativity. Paint the plateau red! Build a fortress, then an army, then an enemy and start a war. Except that’s not what I want. I just want to lie down, look at the sky and imagine imagine imagine.
That’s all in my head. Nothing created and therefore no creativity exercised from a certain critic’s point of view. I give up.