The Other Me

I observe the world and I feel stuck. The words refuse to open up to me, they keep themselves hidden.
Inspiration is something I never searched for, it has always revealed itself to me, by its own will.

I'm sensing a new dry season and I refuse to let it in. I want the pouring rain, to soak my clothes, to soak my shoes, my socks, my fingers to swell because of the wetness and richness of creative water.
I look for the words into the air, into the sky. On the other cars in traffic; on other people's faces, while I train. I look for inspiration in the iron that moves because I command it to, in training.

I refuse to beg, I believe begging for creativity will turn me into a slave. So I just observe. And the painful part about the lack of inspiration is not that I'm somehow unable to draw richness from the exterior experiences happening around me; it's simply because I somehow paused my internal river, my capacity to feel the new, I somehow took a safer trajectory to living and that is causing my lack of creativity.
Someone told me I should try to write out of joy, instead of sadness.

For years, sadness has been my engine to create my life, to create words, to create dreams.
I’m euthymic right now, so how do I create from there?
I’ve observed pain and suffering as a mere contemplation instead of living it on the inside and that has been a major step ahead. Maybe my next evolutionary phase will involve finding inspiration in joy, in silence, in peace.
Because peace for me is numbness. I cannot create in numbness, I can only exist there, live engaged and integrated with the environment around me.

How do I go, from being completely engaged to producing creative force out of something external, present, as is, a mere status quo?
How do I transform my balanced emotional state into a source of creativity, as sadness and loneliness once provided?