Inspiration:

A continuation of the previous rambling . . .

“To be a star, you must shine your own light, follow your path, and don’t worry about the darkness, for that is where the stars shine brightest. Always do what you are afraid to do, always do what you are scared to do. And remember, every man and every woman is a star.”

-Sakis Tolis

Years ago, my older sister and I met at a downtown Atlanta coffee shop to discuss our insufficiently nurtured inclination for personally-gratifying creativity.

She and I sat at the table, a sketch pad between us, doodling in our fashion. She had, and still has, an eclectic fashionable sense for decorative aesthetics (clothing, décor, and communicable exclamations). My desires have long been gratification through entertainment in varying degrees of subtlety.

She and I decided then, well over a decade ago, to exercise and communicate these inclinations eventually digitally. I believe in that moment, the seeds for what would, some six years later, become our corresponding blogs (a progressively outdated mode of communication). Nevertheless, we nurtured these desires until she—my sister—produced “cafethenightaway” for her love of staying up late over a pot of hot coffee in a cozy, lamp-lit, enjoyably decorated environment to discuss what mutual interests may manifest. This proved challenging for her as a mother of two and her attention to this outlet exponentially waned. As my interest in this endeavor was constrained, balanced, and dependent by and upon our collective participation, I ultimately allowed mine to do the same, having disregarded what was ultimately unsuccessful frivolity anyway.

As I consider, now (or lately anyway), our global and sociological paradigm evolutions, I can’t help but hunger for some outlet to discharge these potentially psychologically-calamitous considerations. So, to exercise a creative and artistic desperation, I return to my lonesome platform to produce whatever inspired considerations cerebrally fester. Perhaps the future will play out positively and perhaps this sort of self-therapy will help prepare myself for that hopefully, minimally doom-ridden reality glistening off the future’s horizon . . . but perhaps not.

So, for myself, the happenstantial passerby, family member, or friend, welcome to whatever the fuck I decide to write about . . . again.

-Matt

Note: The sketch above is of Bearspot—my teddybear—from this meeting with my sister. This was eventually turned into a short story here.