::Enjoy your symptom::
Someone who I admire said last night that you're not a writer (or musician, or artist, etc) unless you have written, played, or made something of it TODAY. And, I don't think I agree with that at all. I think these things are inherent, whether practiced more often or not....I am a writer because of the way I recoil and observe the world in a incessant inner monologue every day, I am an artist because I feel so overwhelmingly and acutely towards the smallest moments of beauty (and its counterpart) and yearn to recreate them all the time - and all of the moments, feelings, ideas, and images that come out when I actively create is cumulative of everything that I have actively and passively participated in all of the days prior...some days I'm just luckier than others to be allowed a sacred moment of externalizing these things. I sincerely believe that artists (in all forms) are what they are by nature, you can hone skills but you can't teach someone how to feel "artistically"(?). Can you? I don't know, maybe you can.
Those words don't quite hit the mark.
Appropriately, he also spoke about the inadequacy of the English language which I feel now and so so often in my spoken and written life (which differ to vast extents, unfortunately...I'm still working on collapsing them together) - and how this group of monks chanted in Latin every day, save time spent eating and sleeping only a few hours a night, and how the chanting and meditation sustained them. But then they were taught the same chants in English, the most accurate translation of the words and they found that they became exhausted after only a few hours of the exact same practice in English. Now, I - of course - believe that the English language can be beautiful and lyrical, and is most definitely abundant, but it's true that so often words fail me completely and the true phonetic sound of the language is brutal and clumsy in compared to more romantic languages...
...and what is all of this conclusive of?
Well, I'm exceedingly alive.
Those words don't quite hit the mark.
Appropriately, he also spoke about the inadequacy of the English language which I feel now and so so often in my spoken and written life (which differ to vast extents, unfortunately...I'm still working on collapsing them together) - and how this group of monks chanted in Latin every day, save time spent eating and sleeping only a few hours a night, and how the chanting and meditation sustained them. But then they were taught the same chants in English, the most accurate translation of the words and they found that they became exhausted after only a few hours of the exact same practice in English. Now, I - of course - believe that the English language can be beautiful and lyrical, and is most definitely abundant, but it's true that so often words fail me completely and the true phonetic sound of the language is brutal and clumsy in compared to more romantic languages...
...and what is all of this conclusive of?
Well, I'm exceedingly alive.