When Inspiration Fades, I Drew a Fish That Cried — A Creative’s Healing Journey Through Play

There was a month where my sketchbook stayed blank. Not because I lacked ideas—but because every one felt heavy with expectation. My hands wouldn’t move unless they were sure of their purpose.

I remember sitting at my desk at dusk, the city lights blinking like distant fish beneath the surface of the world. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was accusing.

That night, I opened an old game prototype: Fishing Pulse. Not to play it—just to stare at its waves.

The First Ripple: Letting Go of Control

The game had no story. Just water. Fish that leapt in patterns. A hook that swung on randomness.

And yet… something stirred.

I began drawing—not for clients or galleries—but for myself. A fish with eyes too big for its face. One that blinked slowly when it missed the net.

It looked sad.

But then I realized: this was what I needed. Not perfection. Not productivity. Just presence.

The Hidden Rituals of Playful Creation

What surprised me wasn’t the art—it was how it healed me. Each time I animated a fish swimming left to right (a loop), I wasn’t creating content—I was breathing again.

I started noticing rhythms:

• The way light hits water after rain,
• How fish cluster like thoughts before they form,
• How even failure—missing the catch—has grace in motion.

The game’s RTP (Return to Player) concept? It became my metaphor for creative trust: not every idea wins—but if you keep casting, something will rise from the deep.

From Panic to Pattern: Finding Meaning in Randomness

In Fishing Key, players learn about volatility and luck—not as math equations, but as stories of tides and timing. That resonated deeply with me. My anxiety used to scream: “You must win! You must create something real!” The game whispered back: “Just cast again.” The joy isn’t always in catching—it’s in feeling the line pull through your fingers.

So I did it differently:

• No deadlines,
• No audience,
• Just daily loops of drawing one fish per hour,
• And letting go when it didn’t feel right.

Slowly, peace returned—not as victory—but as quiet continuity.

The Real Treasure Was Never in the Catch

The final piece? It wasn’t displayed anywhere online or printed on canvas. It was a small animation where all five fish swam backward together—as if escaping some unseen force—and then paused mid-motion… like they’d remembered why they were free to begin with.

This became my ritual during dark days: watch them swim once… then close my eyes and breathe with them.