On Discomfort and Creation

I’ve tried to shake this thought from my head but it refuses to leave. It’s almost like it is haunting me; I can see its smile, a big ugly toothless grin calling my bluff and daring me to write this post. 

           

I’ll start from the beginning. 

Two days ago,  I felt a ravenous hunger for a stimulating written piece. I picked up my phone and began stalking random, but not so random people on social media. I was looking for anyone who wrote about anything that wasn’t relationships, hair, makeup, fashion or travel. These days, I enjoy lifestyle blogs as much as I enjoy tea. I don’t. 

After a few minutes of stalking, I found a blog with a queer name of Latin origin. Greek maybe . I don’t know. 

I hesitated in clicking the link the owner had strategically  placed in ‘his’ twitter bio for two reasons. One,  he was an acquaintance whom I’d never had a conversation with and I didn’t feel like I’d earned the right to view his blog. Two, the name rubbed me off the wrong way. But like I said,  I was hungry and an animal needs her meal, so I damned all consequences, clicked the link and in a few seconds, found myself in The black hole. 

The Black Hole

In pitch black theme, pale colors and incredibly tiny fonts, the writer penned his thoughts as if daring anyone who visited to go ahead and read. I was up to the challenge and with no time to scramble for reading glasses, I raised my phone uncomfortably close to my eyes, squinted and began to read. 

The writer wrote about life, death of loved ones, fears, addiction, traumatic experiences, mundane activities and intimate poetry. It was all so personal. Two hours later, I had reached the end of the page and managed to shed a few tears. Sadness engulfed me. Not because I felt pity for the writer, not because I felt weirdly connected to him as we share the same fear of darkness and thunderstorms,  not because I could relate to some of the incidents he so vividly described and certainly not because I knew he’d never know that in some distorted way, he’d become my muse. I was just sad. And I have no reason to give. 

As minutes turned into hours,  my sadness turned into discomfort. Then it hit me! The light bulbs in my head came on like rays of sunlight.

The writer’s words didn’t make me sad. They made me uncomfortable!

Discomfort and Creation
For 24 hours,  I struggled with this feeling of discomfort in the pit of my stomach. Maybe I’d looked too deep into the soul of another man and the devil was punishing me for coming to dinner without a long spoon. 

But this discomfort, this nauseating feeling in the pit of my stomach, has caused me to create this post unlike anything I’ve ever written before. One with no morals, no lessons and no self-improvement tips; just me, baring my heart and mind to you, my amazing reader and hoping you understand me. 

I wonder, If my secret muse, felt the same. If he too was bullied by this emotion called discomfort to create powerful pieces that capture the very essence of art.

I wonder, if I’ve made you uncomfortable enough to make you possessed with the desire to create. 

I wonder if creation could perhaps be an offspring of discomfort. 

I wonder. 

Xoxo.