There is comfort in the notion that there’s a way out of you, a way through which you can enter the world, and meet others. On mornings of sudden emotion or arresting thought, maybe regret, a sense of loss, the mind picks up on the stimuli and needs it finds around itself, and its tools are inspired.
I’ve learnt late that inspiration is closely related to one’s perceived agency, one’s assessment of one’s powers. That the desire to build chases results, and that it can collapse without a hope to reach the world. I tend to have big highs and lows, and the lows always come with a state of uninspiration, a fear of dead-ends. I’ve learnt my bad patches are filled with inutility: that when humans feel their knowledge and effort and heart are of no use to the world, they stand unable to respond to anything, feel there isn’t anything to respond to, and if there was then they couldn’t anyway.
Biologists say lust is metabolically expensive, we seem do it for brief periods of time — a year or two — and only for good reason: people don’t summon that colossal energy of breath and food and heat and heart — burning, for real — for nothing. I think the same way about creativity, in fact, it works the same way, it is the same, a calling, a clear goal, a chance to take fully part: it costs you love and time and sleep and money, you need to feel if you come then you can participate.
No one pulls inspiration out of their butt on a rainy day when there’s nothing to do. And no daemons will come and court you while you watch other artists watch you... Meeting willingly with things that can change you, with things that you can change — your inspiration, which needs problems to solve to appear, will appear.