Fragments of Distant Realities with Id and Ego

The artist arrives home around midnight, his movements unsteady from exhaustion. His desolate house, a chaotic gallery of unfinished and forgotten creations, waits to greet him.

ARTIST:

[Looking around at the scattered water paintings of an elephant, a naked lady with her hair flowing down her bed, a crow.]

Look at this mess. These paintings were just sitting in the cupboard. I painted them a year ago and then just let them sit inside this shelf all this while. I have decided to pull everything out, spread them on the bed, and put a few on the walls. The rest are still lying there[brings them to the living room and scatters the pieces on the coffee table to decide.]

His roommate, sits on the couch in the living room, watching him with mild amusement.

ROOMMATE THINKS:

Did’nt notice his creativity was also a space he struggled with.  I need to point him out on how amazing these are. He should have put them up a long time ago.

ARTIST:

[He changes his clothes, slipping back into the same pink satin pants and brown cotton top he's been wearing for two days.]

I need to do laundry. But for now, I’m starving, even though I had a heavy dinner from that Chinese takeaway earlier. It was so good, hit my sweet spot of satisfaction.

[He heads towards the kitchen, heats some chicken curry and rice for a minute, and sits at the dining table. As he browses through the photos of his outing in the city to post online, he contentedly reflects on the day.]

ARTIST:

I love sharing my day online.

[It only took me ten minutes to finish eating. I need to rinse the plate.]

[Heads to the washing sink. Standing in front of the running tap before he starts, he notices the big jar with elderflowers soaked partially in water kept on the shelf above.]

alerted - pauses/zones out - 

……

[Those elderflower branches he had twisted and struck from the tree and brought back home are now sore and pale, sitting in water almost for a week. The water has turned pale green, with some moss growing on the branches.]

……

task switches back to washing

I brought these elderflower branches home because I read about their healing properties and ability to reduce anxiety. But look at them now. I should have changed the water.

[He continues washing his plate, ignoring the need to change the water and empty the jar. His conscience nudges him with a tickle of guilt, but he brushes it aside.]

ROOMMATE:

Yeah, they look pretty sad now. He should take better care of them. They had so much potential.

ARTIST:

Procrastination strikes again. But I can’t think about that now.

[He returns to the coffee table, and sits with his art.]

ARTIST:

Ideas do flow through me, but the next step always takes longer than expected. Looking around my usual corners in the house, I see things scattered everywhere that are intentional so I don't forget their existence. Creative indie magazines, incense sticks, a candle holder, an empty water bottle, a weeny cactus, a journal, colored pencils, paint brushes, a weeny paint water cup, sticky notes, an ink pen, and even a few house bills and pamphlets.

ROOMMATE:

He always has so much stuff lying around. Does it help him stay creative?

ARTIST:

I’ve always found ways to stay in the flow of creativity. It’s this mix of scattered objects and the mixed but specific ideas they bring. Each item here has a purpose and a role in my creative journey. Sure, it’s a bit of a mess, but it’s my mess, and it helps keep the juices flowing. But these are the thoughts in my head. 

[He feels a sense of comfort in this intentional chaos, knowing that each scattered item is a part of his creative realm.]

ROOMMATE THINKS:

Well, as long as it works for him. 

Just don’t forget to take care of those elderflowers. They deserve a second chance perhaps.

ARTIST:

I will. 

[He prepares to curate the art pieces, staring at the blank wall in the living room.]

ARTIST THINKS:

In my epistemology, I co-exist with my ideas but it feels distant, except for the epiphanic moments. Thoughts wander between creation and being overwhelmed by ideas. Neglected elderflowers and scattered belongings burden his mind. The night drags on with uncertainties, leaving him restless. Does the room feel still or is it my mind? Creativity feels more like a memory than reality[?]. 

I realize that I’m trapping myself in thoughts again.  

[He remains, gaze fixed on the wall with an idea entering his liminal state.]

[momentary pause]