the art of stealing ideas (and making them yours)

What you consume — other people’s content, books, ideas — belongs to you in some way.

Not entirely, but enough for you to steal it, reshape it, and make something new.

If you read something that excites you, that makes you think, “I wish I wrote this” — then write it.

Seriously. Just write it. Feel it.

Then take that energy and create something with it.

Something that has never existed.

Something only you can bring into the world.

And publish it. Anywhere. Everywhere.

Create for the sake of creating. Nothing else.

The other option?

Read something you love, think “I wish I wrote this.”

Then do nothing.

Ignore the spark.

Tell yourself using it would be copying.

And stay the same.

Miss the chance to make something that could change someone’s life.

Feel bad for doing nothing.

Let the idea fade.

And later, complain that you don’t have good ideas.

You do.

You just don’t know how to see them.

You’re blind to the signs that could change everything.

How do you think artists find inspiration?

They look at the world.

If a painter sees the moon and creates a painting from it — is he copying the moon?

Everything we make is based on something else, no matter how small.

Nothing is truly original — and everything is.

If you read something that moves you, and express what it made you feel or think, what you create will never be the same.

It might have a similar form or context, but that’s just a bias you’ve been taught.

They made you believe copying is bad.

But copying like an artist is an art in itself.

It takes vision.

It takes obsession to the details.

It takes a burning “artist’s eye” to see opportunities everywhere — on the street, in conversations, through music, while training — and a mind that’s always on: noticing, remixing, never resting.

It’s about seeing something and expressing it differently — in a way the world hasn’t seen yet.

They told you: memorize, stay inside the lines, spell correctly, do your homework, don’t copy.

It’s the opposite of what you need to do to create.

Forget the details.

There’s time for that later.

At the start, mess is good. Chaos is fuel.

Do you rationalize every painting in a museum?

Even if you try, your first impression is emotional, not logical.

You like it — and you don’t know why.

That’s your artist’s eye.

Your way of finding art in the world.

It doesn’t need to be judged.

It needs freedom.

It needs to know it can exist without perfectionism or shame.

Real perfection is born deep inside — from a place you can’t see or explain.

It starts in complexity, but comes out simple.

It doesn’t need competition, praise, or validation.

It just needs to be accepted — pure.

And brought into the world, the same way we were:

All so similar.

Yet each one — completely unique.