Inspiration, endings & old friends

Image credits: Picture courtesy of Raphael Schaller,

Lately, I've been feeling like my inspiration has abandoned me. After spending decades effortlessly pouring my thoughts into columns, blogs, and countless other writings, I now find myself devoid of ideas, my mind a bland landscape void of any words yearning to be captured on paper.

By Adriana Lebbos
I had dry periods before but was always aware that inspiration was cyclical. Just as nature undergoes periods of dormancy and renewal, so does the creative mind. Since I started blogging in 2000, I’ve faced writer’s block, but those silent periods always ended.

I’d find myself waking up in the middle of the night or pulling over in the middle of the road (a normal thing in Lebanon) just to jot down a few thoughts before heading home to write a column. Although it sometimes played hide and seek, inspiration was always just around the corner, waiting to be rediscovered.

But this time, it feels different.

It's as if the well of creativity has dried up completely. I am leaving no abyss to gaze into or back at me. I can feel it in my bones. I am pretty familiar with endings, and this truly feels like one.

First, there's this feeling that maybe I've said it all. Every topic, every nuanced observation, every dark trip, every subtle remark… perhaps I've exhausted my well of ideas. After years of sharing my deepest thoughts and opening myself up to the world without holding back, I wonder if I've reached the end of my story.

And now I am left with mixed emotions. I feel sad at the thought of having no more stories left to tell, but also a bit of relief that maybe I have reached a state of inner peace, free from trippy questions or existential quests. It feels like I’ve said it all, expressed it all—like the neat end of a lengthy Q&A session, like the final chapter of an intense book.

Another possibility is that the world itself has left me speechless. We live in times of frenzy, crazy, horrible change. Each day brings often more inexplicable and unpredictable news than the last. Finding the right words to describe the chaos is tough when the ground beneath us seems to be shifting. Words fail because reality itself defies description. Words falter because absurdity has taken centre stage.

In an era where artificial intelligence can mass-produce articles and creative pieces, there's a depressing sameness creeping into our conversations. It feels like everyone is saying the same thing—over and over again. The unique voice that once made a writer stand out is lost in a sea of algorithmic perfection and repetitive themes. This saturation, this imitation, leaves little room for fresh perspectives, making the act of writing feel less meaningful. It feels superfluous, unnecessary, and futile.

I wouldn’t say I like endings, but this feels like one. It’s like saying goodbye to an old friend, knowing that things will never be quite the same once they're gone.

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