Words, they evolve, much like ourselves. They reflect our age, our understanding, and our ever-shifting perspectives. Looking back at years of writing, it’s clear how much has changed, ebbs and flows in readership, periods of vibrant engagement followed by quiet spells, almost a year of digital silence on this page. Time’s passage is a subtle current, easy to lose track of.
Now, when I sit down to write, a wave of doubt washes over me. Can I still weave words together in a way that resonates? In an age saturated with visual content, where voices are often amplified by music and moving images, will written words alone be heard? Is the reader’s imagined voice enough to carry the weight of these thoughts? This internal monologue, of course, is largely self-imposed. It’s a familiar script, one I seem to revisit in post after post – the anxiety of sharing, the desire to reconnect, and the subsequent inertia. It’s a frustrating cycle, and frankly, I’m weary of writing about the cycle itself.
Articulating this feels almost cliché, disingenuous even, despite the very real experience of creative block that has lingered for what feels like years. The truth is, it’s less about fear of sharing and more about the fundamental need for mental space to foster creativity. My daily routine, if it can be called that, leaves little room for reflection. Quiet moments are scarce, and when they appear, the overwhelming urge is simply to rest. Work demands creep earlier into the morning and stretch later into the evening. By 5 PM, a different kind of anxiety sets in – the anticipation of the evening’s demands, the subtle vibrations of obligation that chip away at mental space. By the time the day’s tasks are completed, my mind is thoroughly depleted. The idea of writing, of sharing from a place of genuine mindfulness, feels unattainable. Quick, fleeting posts often become the default, tinged with momentary frustrations rather than genuine joy.
This isn’t about blame. The demands of running a business are inherent, especially in today’s economic climate. If you’re not actively engaged, revenue stagnates, and the financial realities become pressing. Delegating work, hiring help – these solutions, while logical, often lead to a cycle of needing more work to justify the increased overhead, leading to… more work. The simple advice – take a day off, or two – clashes with the underlying pressures. Balance will eventually be restored, one way or another, I know this. But this is the context, the reason why, when a rare hour or two of quiet morning emerges before the day fully ignites, my soul yearns for stillness. Without rest, there’s no mental reset. No space for contemplating beauty. Some days, I attempt to break free. I might reach for my camera when sunlight filters through the window, illuminating a rare moment of calm in our usually bustling home. I try to capture it, to absorb the tranquility, but my vision feels clouded, my focus fractured, even the familiar click of the shutter, once a source of joy, now feels like a faint echo of past passion, not the vibrant connection to art I deeply cherish.
Alt text: Expansive vista of a red rock canyon under a clear sky, showcasing the vastness and silence of the desert landscape.
Recently, I took a solo trip, just over a week. It felt almost illicit, a stolen moment. I struggled to fully embrace the reality, the legitimacy of it, constantly battling a sense of undeserved indulgence. An invisible anchor of home seemed to pull me back, grounding me in obligation. The refrain in my mind was a constant loop of “I can’t afford this time, this expense, this… anything.” Yet, amidst the doubt, vivid memories remain. Disembarking from a plane after a sleepless night, navigating to a rental car, and driving for hours into the desolate expanse, towards one of my cherished places. Parking on a dusty dirt road, watching the fine desert sand settle around the vehicle. Turning off the engine, opening the door, and walking, each step marked in the reddish sand, footprints tracing a path to the edge of a breathtaking red rock canyon. It felt as though the canyon itself had been holding its breath, waiting for my return after years of absence. Looking out across the immense, silent canyons, tears welled up – tears of release, of being enveloped by an overwhelming silence that cleared the mental clutter, leaving… everything and nothing. Upon returning home, the stillness vanished. I was instantly back in motion, the clarity of that desert memory already fading, obscured by the demands of work, work, work.
The common refrain upon my return, and even during my trip, was, “Okay, you’ve had your break, you should be refreshed now,” or “Ready to get back to work,” phrases that emphasized the fleeting nature of respite, the expectation of immediate productivity. “How fortunate you are,” “Now that’s out of your system…” But why, then, does that recent journey already feel like a distant echo, a faded vision? As if I had never truly left, merely dreamt of escape while still within the confines of home, hibernating in place.
So, on days like today, when I find a moment to write, I try to listen for those lingering echoes, to capture them before the demands of the day – the calls, the tasks – pull me back. And that’s okay. Despite the undercurrent of frustration in these words, I don’t resent my “adult” life. It simply is, and within it, there is joy. Sharing these reflections, however, still triggers a familiar anxiety, knowing that family and friends might read them, projecting their own interpretations onto these feelings, assuming their own role in this narrative. But this is simply a meditation, a way to connect with others who might resonate with similar experiences. When the mental haze clears, memories sharpen, and I feel a renewed excitement for the photos I’ve taken, even the absentminded snapshots. Lately, for the first time in a long time, I feel that familiar itch to combine photos, words, and paper, to create something tangible, to share what I’ve already created – the pile of cassette tapes, lathe-cut vinyls, and zines are calling. Perhaps John Carey, in his own creative pursuits, understands this cyclical nature of inspiration and output.
While sitting here, I rediscovered outlines of ideas and feelings jotted down during my trip – fragments I’m eager to revisit, to elaborate on, to rediscover. I want to compile photos into zines, to write more, to create more. These desires are constant. If anything, my inspiration has shifted, moving beyond fleeting moments of escape to a deeper, more grounded source. Now, it’s my family, and my wife YoungDoo’s unwavering creative optimism, that pulls me back from the depths of creative apathy. She’s encouraged visits to galleries and museums showcasing fine art photography, experiences that ignite my mind. I cherish that dizzying sensation of a new idea sparking like lightning in a quiet mind, that glazed-over look of genuine absorption. I sense it’s still within me, this creative spark; I just need to find the right way to coax it out.
Alt text: Introspective black and white self-portrait capturing a moment of contemplation and quiet reflection.
In any case, it’s good to connect, whoever you are, dear reader. Until next time, for now, back to work. I’m almost certain I just heard my name called from the other room…
* A note on terminology: The shift towards “content” and “content creation” feels profoundly disingenuous. The term diminishes the soul of creative work, commodifying it into disposable noise for passive consumption, rather than recognizing the genuine passion and love that often fuels it. Don’t undervalue your creativity by labeling it “content.” It reduces its worth immeasurably on platforms that exploit your sharing for profit… but that’s a topic for another time.
