when creating art is inextricably tied to your existence or survival.
when you are feeling well and are retaining an extended period of stability in your life, you are able to observe, hear or touch the myriad expressions made by others, and you are imbued with a sense of admiration. you know that what they created may not be technically, aesthetically or stylistically something within your purview, reach or capability, but you are nonetheless moved and inspired by it. your sense of self as a creative individual is only enhanced, not minified.
when you are feeling infirm — in either of heart, body or soul — and are unable to retain any sense of constancy or must confront unsteadiness in your life (even if it’s entirely beyond your control, no matter how hard you fight to avert it), you cannot observe, hear or touch the myriad expressions made by others without a profound feeling of inferiority, and you are imbued with a sense of being shaken to the very core with failure. you know that what they created is far beyond your techincal, aesthetic and stylistical bounds, and you are nonetheless crushed to tears by it. your sense of self as a creative individual is shattered, and you deduce that you are also anything other than creative.