The life of a creative is comical, cathartic, and chronically chaotic. Oftentimes, I wonder whether there’s a way out of this kind of life. No two days are the same. Mondays are always novel—there is something to look forward to after slow Sunday afternoons, and there is little dread in the trepidation of thinking about tomorrow’s work. Instead, your nervous system is met with the stress of not knowing what comes next. And isn’t that exciting?
Surprises linger around every corner. But suddenly, you are too tired to distinguish whether it’s a threat to your life or not. For your sake, you just have to assume there isn’t a big and scary clown wielding a knife behind the next door. Among the flowering buds, late bloomers, and butterflies, I’ve found far too little time to appreciate the emerging summer. How could I possibly distinguish the important signals in a world of so much noise?
I have resigned myself to similar fates because it seems to be the recurring theme of my Decembers. As the cicadas chirp, the hot and humid festivities of Australian summers ensue. Sunburns become more likely as I venture out into urban deserts during the day, and I am often left irritated and in a state of mild dehydration. And among that? The work doesn’t seem to end.
When sunset comes like a yellow traffic light, you ought to slow down. The warm gradients of our wonderful sky are a sight to behold, and a great reminder that it is soon time to rest. And as the air begins to cool, welcoming the dark purple hues of dusk, golden hour turns into the twilight zone. My eyes have not recognised the yellow light, and I am still speeding down the interstate, looking for my exit.
After all, the daytime is a treasure trove of fruitful ideas just waiting to be realised. And I’ve been collecting as many unrefined gems as I can. How could I not when they appear shiny in places and so full of potential? They only need to be cut and polished for people to see the beauty I imagined. It couldn’t possibly take too much time. It couldn’t.
However, my adventures have only left me the nighttime to create. Is it madness to keep chasing after my creative spiels? For I know, I have let the darkness of nights steal away my sleep for too long. No matter how much I look up at the moon, the lunacy does not depart from me—not until the work is done. Yet, the moon looks so lovely tonight. They’re calling it the cold supermoon. Is the work ever done?
Perhaps not. But right now, it’s sink or swim.
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