They cannon out of a barrel loud, cold, swift, eating the air. Tracing singular straight lines right up until they can’t anymore. Shots hurdling. Sideways free fall. The target’s unaware, even up until the last millisecond before the bullets hit skin.

Skin encases the skull. The skull is thick and cool looking around the brain, in technical terms. Bullets only go so far. 1,700 mph and they still can’t manage to make it all the way through. They struggle to get lodged farther in, farther in, maybe back to fresh air. Usually they end up snuggled within pink, cartoon-like mush or something.

Bullets cannon out of barrels right into a neighborhood coke dealer guys. Coke dealer sells crack coke dealer gets head cracked right through the middle. Shooting is easy. In movies, one tiny missile drives through three men. Hollywood. These men aren’t really being cracked in the head. But we see it and we like, what a cool thing.

Bullet nestled in the cavern of the mighty and shiny. One bullet at a time. Each waits their turn. Bam! Bam! Bam!

This shit is cool, man, huh. Bullets flyin, makin’ a scene and shootin’ off like fireworks. How many bullets till I feel something?

Bullets hurdle through air, piercing circularly, lurching forward. Air doesn’t even stand a chance. It just watches, moves out of the way, and then disperses. We call this elegant and proven to be worthy of slow-motion. Until impact. Until impact, and then, men’s lives are ripped apart by the explosion and left on the floor. This would be disgusting in slow motion. Then it’s over, souls float away. Elegant yet again in the imagery, but the death was not dignified.


It’s Really Hard To Write

It’s really hard to write when you have nothing to write about. Artists, poets, creators – I feel like we’re all reliant on these vital incredible awakenings: hits of inspiration.

They usually come in the form of bursts of brain activity right as mind is slipping into dream. A little bug buzzing around your ear makes your heart beat faster – I know this is a good idea – so a long time’s spent planning and plotting the details of creative goodness as the insect climbs into your ear and knocks the walls around a little bit. He tends to keep people up late. Sometime’s it’s worth it. Inspiration also comes in the car. When the mind is finally too zoned out to be completely safe on the road, it opens. The bug climbs in. Flies around before you can even notice and before you know it you’re unconsciously writing your next great article.

I’ve relied on these little insect givers of creative clarity throughout my life, jumping on whatever idea they had decided to concoct in my brain that day. That is what the majority of my blog posts have been. Sudden strikes of little ideas waiting to be formed at my fingertips when I decide to say yes to the buzzing bee of artistic stimulation. And that’s been amazing. Lighthearted, almost, and fun and otherworldly to see what things I’d be given next and when.

These ideas came freely for a while. They’d pop into my head, beckoning to me about the subject of being written down. I’m not sure if they would have cared if I wrote them in a notebook, or a journal or whatever. But I knew that once these ideas were dropped they would want out of my head quickly, or else they’d get annoying. So I drew from them and it felt very sanctifying as I clicked at the alphabet on my keyboard. Even more so when I shared these tiny flickering firefly ideas with the people on my facebook.

I loved sharing my heart with people. The problem is, that the cute little ideas haven’t really visited me lately. As much as I’ve tried, as much as I’ve asked, nothing has penetrated through my head to my brain except small little “what-if?” ideas that are so boring and dull that I’m sad that I’m even thinking of them, when I used to think of things so much better.

So, with this dilemma in my heart, I wonder – are artists truly reliant on hits of inspiration? Many people say they have written great songs in one go because the idea just slaps them across the face – but others spend years and years composing. Could art school really be possible if what was expected to make great art were those bursts of inspiration that make things so much easier?

Is the real test of an artist to draw, paint and create without the help of a buzzing bug planting magic ideas that come with a blueprint for you to follow? Can I write, even when I have nothing to write about?

All I know is that I’ll always enjoy those little hits of inspiration. But I think I learned at Bible School that while feeling God is amazing, you can still walk along with him when it doesn’t feel too pleasant or inspiring. Well, maybe the same with art. Maybe the same. But how when my whole existence is wrapped up in feeling and emotion? Maybe it goes hand in hand with a drab but consistent walk with God.

Consistency, dammit. Says the girl who has made 7 different Tumblrs. We got a long road ahead of us, little insects.