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I seem a bit lost. I feel like I have spent my allotted creativity for the time being. I have manic episodes. Creative mania. Creativity is my whiskey. My juice. My trip. My new or not so new JD. Like that bottle of whiskey, I caress my creativity, my mouth waters I tremble as I twist the cap and toss it away. I smell, then sip, then guzzle. I wring it dry. I immerse myself in the drunken revery. Then, as fast as it came, that feeling I chase with such gusto, is gone.

I sit remorseful, that I have, in that revery, neglected other things. Then the fear comes. Angst. When will I get my next fix? Where will that next rush come from? How will I get it when the dealer of my creativity seems to have closed up shop and left me to sit, dried out, dried up, wondering. It is, without a doubt, one of the most frightening places I visit. My greatest fear is that I will be stuck in my own head with no creative outlet to release the images that dance like dervishes in my skull. The ideas are there, I just can’t seem to release them. Even at this moment I stare at the blinking cursor wondering how I can say what needs be said. What is my motivation, what will spark that next bout of revery? What will kick start that new round of celebratory creativity?

Music. Music seems to be the magical cocktail for this evening. The music reaches deep inside my soul and stirs me. I take the mental mass transit but can’t remember my stop. I ride until I fall asleep only to be rousted awake by the bus driving muse and told that I missed my stop. It’s OK she says. I can take you back the way you came. I ride that round trip until I get dizzy and feel sick with fear. The high pitched scream in my mind won’t stop. It keeps yelling for release, screaming to be written, painted, photographed. Something, anything. PLEASE!

Three hundred and fifty plus words later, half a pack of cigarettes and bleary eyed from staring at the screen, I am still at the place I started. Waiting for my euphemistic bottle of whiskey to appear. I see it, just out of reach. It taunts me, beckons me to once again sip from it’s creative flow, reminding me that I am still able to pick up by the neck and violently shake every drop from it’s creative flow, that one more time I might get loaded on the creative vibe.

My muse is my bartender, pouring me double shots of her smooth, mind numbing, nectar. Once again I can lose myself in that drunken revery I name creativity. Once again, beauty will spring forth from my mind to my hands and then to page, canvas or print and if only for a brief moment, I can be whole. I can do what it is that I was created to do. I WILL make beautiful things.

Five hundred plus words and I have moved beyond that artistic hangover. I am chasing the creative dragon. Much safer and more sane by far, than the dragons I used to chase.