The Limits

If there's something I always feared, it's the end of creativity.

The point where the pose is drawn, but you don't know who is gonna do it.

When the pen is in your hand, but you don't know what words to put in the lined notebook.

When the color palette is done, but you don't know what do paint.

What do I do when I can't create anymore?

Isn't that the point of being an artist?

An everlasting imagination?

Holding in your very hands the power of creation?

I've been told a long time ago:

"You have such a big imagination!"

"The only limit is your imagination!"

But when you've reached the limit, you're stuck.

Whites pages.

Blank lines.

Empty canvases.

The void.

It's there, it's all you always needed.

Pencils, pens and brushes.

Sketchbooks, notebooks and canvases.

But nothing comes to mind.

So what do I do?

Do I put all of my works in a drawer and show it to my kids years later when everything has become dull and grey?

"Look how stupid your dada was when they were a teenager, their work was so ugly and pointless."

Or do I keep sketching until I scratch out another page?

Do I keep writing senseless words until I ray them from the line?

Do I keep moving the brush until there's another canvas in the trash bin?

What do you do when everything you have, days after days, weeks after weeks, months after months, is a blank page?

...

Do I keep going, despite everything and everyone telling me to stop?