The leaves are curling inward, brittle and brown at the edges. The soil is cracked, receding from the sides of the pot. Another plant, another slow, inevitable demise. And I am its executioner.
It was supposed to be different this time. I had good intentions–I always do. I picked the perfect spot by the window, watered it diligently at first, even whispered words of encouragement (because science says that helps, right?). But then life happened. Work piled up, deadlines loomed, and the plant–silent, patient, needy in its own non-urgent way–faded into the background. I told myself I’d get to it tomorrow. Tomorrow turned into next week.
And now, here we are–another shrivelled reminder of my neglect.
And somehow, staring at this dying plant, I don’t just see a neglected pothos. I see every creative project I’ve ever had. Every story I’ve started, every painting I once obsessed over, every grand idea that consumed me for days, weeks, months – until, without realizing it, I let them wither. At first, they flourished under my attention, bright and full of promise. Then, life crept in. Targets. Chores. Distractions. I told myself I’d return to them, water them tomorrow, give them the care they deserved. But time passed by and tomorrow turned to next month, and before I knew it, they were nothing more than abandoned fragments of inspiration, too far gone to revive.
I like to believe creative people are cursed with an overabundance of ideas. They come in waves, filling notebooks and cluttering our minds until we can’t keep up with them all. And inevitably, some get left behind. We chase the thrill of starting something new, but the grind of finishing? That’s another beast entirely. A blank canvas is intoxicating, a new story is electric, but at some point, the excitement wears off and we’re left with the hard part – discipline, revision, commitment. In that gap between inspiration and execution, projects begin to wither.
Maybe that’s why creative block hits so hard. The lack of ideas isn’t really the problem, it’s about having too many and not knowing which to nurture. It’s the fear of picking the wrong one, of pouring time and energy into something only to realize it won’t bloom the way we hoped. So instead, we procrastinate. We start something new. We abandon the old, convinced we’ll come back to it someday.
Does unfinished work ever disappear? I’d say it tends to linger. A story left untold becomes a weight, a quiet voice in the back of our minds whispering, “you never finished me.” And the guilt of that neglect turns into avoidance, turning something we once loved into something that haunts us.
Maybe this is why my plants keep dying. It’s not just forgetfulness,It’s a pattern. A subconscious, repetitive loop of enthusiasm followed by neglect. A reflection of how I treat things that don’t demand attention but still need it. Plants don’t scream when they’re thirsty. Ideas don’t bang on the door when they start to fade. They simply wilt; they retreat.
And so, I tell myself the solution is to push harder. To stay up later, work longer, to pour everything I have into my projects as if sheer force of will could make up for inconsistency. If I just sacrifice enough sleep, social life, sanity, I’ll finally create something meaningful. After all, isn’t that what all great artists do?
It sounds noble, even romantic. The idea that suffering breeds brilliance, that the best art comes from struggle. That to be great, you must be willing to break yourself in the process. Right?
Wrong.
There’s a dangerous myth in the creative world: that the best work comes from struggle, that suffering somehow equals genius. We romanticise the starving artist, the obsessive writer, the filmmaker who hasn’t seen daylight in weeks, the musician who disappears into a basement studio and emerges with hollow eyes, the painter who smears frustration onto canvas at 3 a.m. because inspiration waits for no one.
Burnout doesn’t fuel creativity, it suffocates it.
I’d love to tell you that writing this article was a breakthrough moment–that I’m now a changed person, diligently tending to my plants and creative projects with perfect balance. But I won’t lie. There’s a very real chance I’ll forget to water something again–my plants, my ideas, myself. But if we learn to nurture ourselves with the same care we pour into our work, our creativity could potentially thrive.
Now go drink some water. And while you’re at it, water your plants too.
