Restlessness of an artist

 Today I went for a long walk with my Mr. Partner. We were having a conversation and both of us admitted to feeling restless. I often feel restless and walking helps me to clear my head and to feel settled, especially when I walk in nature. I told him that I feel what bugs us is the restlessness of an artist. It never leaves you until you start painting, writing, making things, arranging your collection, whatever form of creativity it takes. There is no escape, nothing to be done about it, apart from obliging and creating. You might think it is really a curse...

My partner has been writing a novel for many years. His novel is now finished and two days ago he sent it to the literary agent. He hasn't started writing another book yet, hence his restlessness...
I asked him to write a few words about it for this blog. This is what he wrote:

"Restless, we can’t start, pause or finish.
It’s inside our bones waiting for a desert wind that never seems to come. So we take to the street, walking until the blood flows jagged in the veins, thinking, that this will shake it off, but knowing otherwise.
Time cracks its shell and seed spills along the gutters trailing ideas like a spider’s silky thread, but it is still not enough, not until light expands in the head and we see what we have always known, that without this restlessness we cannot be who we are, but with it we are condemned to be its eternally fractured victim.
So stroke the key, flattened black over white until harmony diminishes over the fifth, pull umber over cadmium until it simulates the shadow of the heart, pound ink into the shape of emotion and stretch the landscape until it reveals what lies below the skin of human condition, warm the voice until it sours so high the flap of its wing breaks the heart long before it falls with a sigh, but oh, do not kid yourself, the restlessness waits and always waits because just when you believe you have achieved this year’s perfection restlessness is there to smell the blood in the cracks and you and I, once again, are left to take to the street and walk surprised at our own naivety, as if art did not ache with its own hunger."
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Restlessness of an artist