For some reason I find the sight of a perfectly sharpened pencil extremely pleasing. Make it an 8B pencil and I’m ecstatic.
Give me some paper as well, and I’m unstoppable. I’ll scribble down anything. I’ll copy my council tax bill if neccessary. Just as much as touching a peach causes me emotional pain, moving an excessively sharp and soft pencil across the page appeals to my senses in an incredibly satisfying way. Throw in some textured paper and a pen with scented ink and I’m likely to be overstimulated.
I’m not sure how I survive the chaos of my days, considering how finely tuned I am. But I know it is just by moving my pen across the page, or my fingers across the fretboard that I can keep it together. Creating is no choice for me. It’s a neccessity.
“Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create—so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, their very breath is cut off…They must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency they are not really alive unless they are creating.” - Pearl S. Buck