You know you’re finished as a painter when you look at your brushes, clean and neatly arrayed, and the thought of sullying them with paint is abhorrent to you; when the dust and fly specks accumulated on the canvas seem sufficient to sending your message.
You know you’re finished as a writer when all you can find to write about is writing and, even then, all you can come up with is a stale critique of something you wrote a decade or more ago in someone else’s style.
You know you’re finished as a singer when all you sing is oldies, sung halfheartedly and exactly as they were sung when you first heard and hated them.
You know you’re done driving when you take your foot off the gas and admire the landscape’s new details.
Sometimes you still wish things were different, but they’re not, and you know they never will be.
You know you’re finally finished.