I remember reading a profile of someone last year who said they were nervous about running out of things to write about. I didn’t think it was a reality for me, personally; now, I am beginning to think otherwise.
When I started writing, I was surprised. I had never been a good writer, but I was moderate, at least. I was never the student whose work was exemplified for the class, and I found myself re-using topics year after year. I came into TCT completely blind, with no clue what to expect. I changed as a writer, and although I remained an average student, never the best but hopefully not the worst, I always had ideas flowing like a fountain through my mind.
Until the fountain stopped, and all that remained was a puddle of remnants at the bottom. The energy and flow were lost. My ideas come less commonly, and I may have to sit for hours to find a topic or even start writing. This has come up on multiple occasions and in different environments.
It is because of my fountain.
My fountain is always changing shape. Some days, it is a minuscule bird bath that has a thin pipe of overflowing water, and other days, it is a flamboyant explosion of mist in all directions. It shifts as my mood and expectations alter. No matter the design, shape, or size, the water cycles through the same amount continuously.
The definition of the water is also constantly changing. Some days, the water represents my motivation; other days, it is ideas, and sometimes, it’s my emotions and feelings. At some points, it is all tied together, with a stream for each aspect. It flows, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, sometimes more, and sometimes less. Either way, the waterfalls to the bottom to be drawn up and pushed out again, forming new thoughts and feelings each time.
Until it stops.
It began as a less common occurrence but has transformed into a normal occurrence. The fountain breaks down, and the water sits sedentary at the bottom of the pool, with nothing new emerging from the spouts. I feel lost, anxious, confused, and stuck. There is no direction for me to move, forward or backward, but I am stuck, with all aspects of myself at the shallow bottom of the fountain pool. I feel defeated, awful, and depressed. My fountain eventually shifts to a pool, with nothing emerging and no designs, until it is as basic and simple as can be.
I have no resources to fix the fountain. At some point, it will continue its ever-going flow, but the intervals in between can be long. I have thrown my coin into the fountain and called it worthless and boring, and that no matter who tries to fix it or examines it, there is no solution.
I forget how much I really care for my fountain. It is beautiful and unique. My thoughts and ideas, when they do flow, are unique and my own. The water flows in different ways and creates an art that is unlike any other. I remember that even when it breaks, the water remaining creates its own art and beauty, even if that is simply a reflection of myself and what I’ve gone through and accomplished.
I feel lost, like all my ideas have run out, yet I continue to write. For the time being, all the work my beautiful fountain has shown me proves that even my moderate work is perfect.
