Holes.

Let’s imagine, for the sake of establishing a meaningful analogy, that you’re an artist. Art holds centre ground in your consciousness. In fact, it holds so much of your consciousness that nearly everything you do informs, is informed by, reflects, or at least relates in some way to your art. Art isn’t quiet everything to you, but it touches everything.

And then somebody comes along, waves the dark wand of destruction over you while you’re sleeping peacefully one night, and you wake up to find you can’t make art any more. Suddenly, the centre ground of your consciousness is just a bloody big hole and you don’t know how to put some substance back into it, at least not for the moment.

That does make sense, doesn’t it?

This is fiction, of course. It’s a process I’m studying at the moment.