I have a confession: these last few days, I have become, in my own way, fat, dumb, and happy. I'm bloated on self-indulgent semi-intellectual pursuits: I learned to read the ancient Greek alphabet (though still lack anything approaching grammar or vocabulary), I've read some books, looked into whether I think the form and style and content of "The Sandman" by Neil Gaiman, proposed long ago by a friend, constitutes art (still haven't totally made up my mind, though aspects, certain pieces, certainly do).
And why did I set out on these endeavors? Boredom, a desire to be inspired in some unknown way. Yet for all my efforts to spark my creativity, engage myself more fully, I've merely dampened my desire to create as my desire to behold creative thought is fulfilled. However, it's fulfilled in what I consider an almost mediocre fashion- my lack of involvement in creation, or using what I see as inspiration, has tainted the experience. Neither truly hungry nor fulfilled, my happiness in this aspect remains in limbo, undecided. I hope that my Philosophy of Art class will re-engage me.
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