Not Your House But Your Head

55 years old and feverishly creative, I spend every spare moment trying to make something or read material that will influence the things I am creating. Can't even walk the dog without spending that time speaking into my phone to create this Google document of my thoughts. The only thing commensurate to my prolificity is my concrete belief that none of it has any meaning whatsoever. Dew drops on a fallen leaf. A million ripples of tiny raindrops on a lake. Am I in the eye of the storm? Or is the storm in my eye? Getting out of the house for a few minutes even just to go for a walk is always good for the soul. But what if what you need to escape is not your house but your head? What if creativity, like drinking and drugs, is just another method for releasing endorphins to the brain? Like monster movies and roller coasters, could not a person become psychologically addicted? Compulsively creative behavior might also have therapeutic properties. Think of the healing power in a safe, legal and reliable escape from reality. Life is an existential crisis from your first breath to your last. All man-made things are false gods. We use every single thing either as a tool to avoid suffering or a tool to create pleasure, when, in fact, our natural pre-conditioned state is pure unfettered joy of being. The answers we seek are within. As soon as you go outside of your own heart looking for answers you're on the wrong track. Keep chewing up those gurus and spitting them out.