“The feelings! They’re real! They’re real enough? They are real, aren’t they…?!”
It is the tone of someone desperate to understand. One who must figure out how to convey the inner ideas and abstractions so that maybe, just maybe, someone else might say it was alright. That they would take the moment and hold it in their hands.
“Please make the time stop. Stop so I can take my thoughts and lay them clear. So that maybe I can begin to tell you what I try to mean…”
Each time is a frantic moment for me, when I feel I can no longer stand it. Something painful swells within, trying to escape.
That moment of desperation is where it comes. When I am scrambling to achieve, to communicate some idea. To simply get it out in some coherent form so that I might remember what I meant and be able to say it all again. I know what I want to say. The words come out. They reach a page. The mode reaches some else. They grasp that moment.
The moments are scarce. They come in spurts. I wonder if there is any use in explaining anything. It is the same method for everything I’ve done. Any sort of writing. Errands. Music. Dance. Mathematics. Philosophy. It starts as an unnoticeable crescendo that reaches critical capacity resulting in the expulsion too much effort and subsequent collapse. And out it certainly comes! I’m often shocked at the words that tumble from my mouth, the colours of the lines on the page in front of me, the holes from erasure marks when suddenly the equations begin to make sense. My ears ring and time is lost when the music just feels like it’s really music. Not correct, but music in itself. For the sake of the art.
Our most mundane tasks take inspiration of some kind. The inspiration is not just a will, but a force. It is the means by which we do all things.