I've been excusing my inaction by pretending I'm without inspiration. I'm deceiving myself. I would have to be blind, deaf, and emotionless to engage the world of the twenty-first century and not find something worthy of stirring some feeling, whether that feeling be humor or happiness, sorrow or serenity, irritation or intrigue. Inspiration is everywhere, my environment is super-saturated with it.
After spending a few minutes of my morning looking through the photographs, paintings, and drawings that I've favourited over the last year on dA, I'm shocked by the sparseness of my own gallery. For all the ideas I have swimming in my head, why