|They all came up tails.|
This morning, I felt that old familiar burn in my chest. My heart is squeezing like it does when it wants to let something out. When I'm in writing mode, this is when my forearms start tingling and my fingers get restless, and I go running for the keyboard. That hasn't happened yet. It's close. I can feel it coming, but it's not here yet.
What's happening is the negative of creative output. It's the same compulsion turned inside out. It's the other side of the creative coin. Instead of pouring myself out, I want to be filled. I need something to reach out and affect me. I need to experience, to receive. I want the catharsis of being profoundly touched by the creativity of another.
If I could, I'd go on a pilgrimage to art museums. I'd camp in a gallery. I'd surround myself with music. I'd spend a week in a theater. I'd drink it all in, all the art and beauty I could take. I'd glut myself on it, bathe myself in it. I'd wallow in it until my heart says stop, you're ready.
That's when I'll see the other side of the coin, the other view of the picture.