Sometimes I wonder...how I don't run out of ideas

It's strange isn't it?

Every day I'm blathering on about some thing or another, for the last two years I've gone more-or-less uninterrupted. I've repeated yea but not exactly, I can just go on and on and on, talk about something or other. Wonderful how one can just write and not run out of ideas. Wherever these things come from, there's gotta be a limit, a sort of 'bucket' where after it's run out, there's only empty rumbles. A drip here and a drop there.

Or perhaps. There's no fountain or spout out of the bucket, only drips. These aren't high-quality prose worthy of reading, so it's not beyond the realm of possibility that this particular bucket has always been empty (and thus it makes such loud noises) and what we're getting here is drip drip drips of creativity because that's all there is to it.

When I do truly run out of ideas though, this is what I do. As in, this, right now what you're reading is what I type. Complaints about being unable to write, wondering about how awesome I am, and just wasting time and internet space. Because really, the brain fogs for a while, there's nothing good running about. No tales of rabbits going on wild tales, no historical fiction, no strange animals fornicating with one another to produce abhorrent chimera, no no no none of the fun nonsense. Only navelgazing here. Gaze, gaze gaze at one's own navel and wonder about the things that could be.

Is it possible to teach creativity, or is one born with it? Can empty buckets learn to fill themselves up and pour out a steady stream of quality content (that's what literature is called in the third decade of the twenty-first century boys and girls) for the world to consume (aka old-timey 'read') or are they only good for making loud noises and scaring away critters like stray dogs and cats, maybe a wild animal sometimes. A monkey here and there when a lone individual finds himself bored by the pashupati neighborhood.

These put me to sleep, can't imagine how terrible it must be upon my readers. Genuinely though. Started writing yesterday, made it to like what five posts, and such strong urge to sleep, it was intolerable. Saddest part is I didn't even fall asleep, it was just the body's defence mechanism to avoid producing or consuming any sort of content resembling this. No worthy cause to have lost the habit for.

Socializing should be energizing, it should trigger ideas and make you want to create more interesting, colorful and perhaps even wild characters. It sounded like my brother though, the one who's been coming to my place lately, one of the few reasons I actually moved to the new land. It's often not, which sucks because I want to be in a place to be making new friends and funnies, but also be writing like a famous author. Wish my aspirations were actively listed. I do ant to be a safe and secure person, none of that bullshitting about a of this!