From Ibn Malik:

I am a creative person at heart. Really, I truly am. You might even call me romantic. I can take long walks late at night to admire the moon. I can stare at nature for hours. I can sit and see a beautiful girl and create an entire history for her, and perhaps a history for us that will never be. And yet, I find myself lost for self-expression. My writing is mundane and monotonous at the least, and that’s ignoring the horrendous shifts in tense and grammar. I would make art except that by the will of some divine god or muse I have been cursed with the crafting capabilities of an infant with knobby fingers. Probably even worse. I lack the ability to visualize every detail of a sketch, nor do I have the patience to carry out each individual mark of the pen. As for pottery and crafts, well, needless to say, clay becomes no better than mud when squished in my hands. I can’t write poetry, because all my metaphors involve like or as, like they taught us in grade school, and my attempts at depicting grandiose images fades down to too vague or simply too much. And so I find myself stuck in this perpetual limbo of frustration, like a lover forced celibate. Any artistic impulses I feel have to be squished out through lack of productivity and action, or burnt out like a candle flame in the wind, wished away before its light can illuminate the dark corridor that is the human soul. I am a creative person at heart. Really, I truly am.


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