The Tortured Artist.

**DANGER!!  TERRIFICALLY BAD POETIC VERSE AHEAD**

He sits alone,
                tool in hand
Arm of stone,
                and brain of sand

Writer, painter, sculptor:  what artist hasn’t felt like this at one point or another.  Unable to move or think or act to summon forth that art.  Chained to their work with no hope of escape except by the sheer force of will to wrestle that creative need into submission.  The agony of the effort is crippling.

Why is it so difficult to push past that wall of resistance?  Why can’t the act of creation be as simple as we want it to be?  As we believe in our hearts sometimes that it can be?

Because it was easy, everyone could do it.

I suppose that everyone could do it, but not everyone has the will to make that leap, to take that chance and make it happen.  It’s the crazy artist that has that drive, that passion, that obsession with creation to become, if only for a time, the god of that medium, to craft life from the lifeless.

Walk across the sand of the desert of inspiration.  The sand is for those that don’t really want it.

Chip away at the stone encasing the tool of your trade.  Don’t let it weigh you down.

Make.

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