The problem, the joy of creating, is that it is, at least for me, like falling love. You date around a lot, well at least it seems that what the world does, and it’s what I do with imagery for sure, then every once and a while, you meet that one. That one that sparks. That lights you up. You hope it lasts. You want to do nothing but consume it, drink in it, savor it, and be consumed by it. And there is always that fear that it won’t last. That it’s no deeper than what you first saw, and it’s just more of the same, but you hope, pray if you pray, that it has some depth, some staying power.
I know this series won’t last more than the summer. That’s probably good. I know I have to consume it all now. I know there will be an end, for better or worse. I know I have to work it for the little time I have. I doubt it will survive the winter, usually projects don’t survive an extended separation with me.
Hell, I get kept awake at night by this. I just want to make more and more. But I need to temper my time, my passion (tempering my passion has never been my greatest skill for sure) give it time to grow, get it right, not make a mess of it. Find a way to savor her right, treat her properly, the way this one, this particular one needs to be treated. They all have some needs in common, but they are all unique, and must be cared for differently, specially.
What a rambling mess it all is, this note.
My head is all jumbled and I love it.