From the outside, creativity can seem almost romantic — as if it wakes you in the middle of the night, sits beside you at breakfast, appears on Zoom calls the moment someone says, “Let’s treat this as a brainstorm,” and then slips into bed next to you, ready to wake you again with another brilliant idea.

But in reality, when I speak to creatives, the most common topic isn't inspiration — it is burnout.

It sounds contradictory, almost nonsensical, but it is true: the more creative you are expected to be, the more drained you often feel afterwards. Unless you understand how to work with the forces that actually drive you. And those forces usually come down to two things, closely intertwined: dopamine and novelty.

Why do they feel so powerful — and how do they quietly exhaust us in the process? Let’s take a closer look with the help of Rusty Beukes, co-founder of Between Us Boys, and Hassan Abou Alam, the underground Egyptian DJ and music producer.

Disclaimer: This material was first published in the special print issue of The Sandy Times Newspaper, created for House of Porsche. This digital version has been adapted for online publication.

Before we go into the details, let’s pause and understand how dopamine — the hormone we casually call the “pleasure chemical” — is actually connected to novelty. The terminology matters here, as dopamine isn't primarily about pleasure; it is about motivation, anticipation and pursuit. It doesn't surge when you receive the reward, but when you predict that a reward might be coming. It lives in the space of expectation.

In other words, you aren't excited because you booked the tickets, but because you are imagining the trip. Not because you started a new project, but because your brain is already forecasting what it might become. Dopamine rises in the presence of possibility. It sharpens attention around uncertainty. It leans towards what hasn't yet happened. In that sense, dopamine sits very close to novelty — to the unfamiliar, the unformed, the not-yet-known.

Psychology recognises something called the novelty-seeking trait — the idea that some nervous systems react more strongly to new stimuli than others. For certain people, change doesn't simply feel interesting; it feels energising and necessary. For them, change isn't simply appealing; it is activating.

So perhaps we aren't merely inspired by novelty. We are neurologically reinforced by it to create. The brain rewards exploration. It strengthens the impulse to start, to experiment, to imagine. Creativity, in this sense, is fuelled by a system designed to chase what is new.

At the beginning, there is always a quiet charge in the air. My senses feel heightened — I notice the references, the cultural cues, the emotional undertones, and the subtle ways an idea might take shape in the world. It is probably the phase I love most, because it is pure possibility. Nothing has been filtered yet — no approvals, no external interpretations. It still belongs to instinct.

And yet, within this same system lies the mechanism that complicates everything: hedonic adaptation. To protect the nervous system from constant overstimulation, the brain gradually restores equilibrium. What once felt electric becomes familiar. The intensity softens. The brain exhales.

This is where the association quietly takes root: when something feels new, the brain senses possibility. We become energised, creative, alive — and even if we are lacking other resources, they somehow seem to appear. We borrow from tomorrow’s sleep, skip proper rest, ignore nourishment — and still keep going.

But when the intensity fades and there is no new stimulus to chase, that same state can suddenly feel like stagnation. Calm begins to resemble decline.

And so the solution appears obvious: new people, new places, new purchases. Forward again.

If constant change is the fuel, why can’t we simply keep going? It doesn’t seem that difficult, does it?

The problem is that constant stimulation isn’t sustainable. Novelty feels energising — even empowering — at first. But the body still needs pauses, rest and sleep. And while everything appears fine on the surface, something else is happening underneath:

So — stability or novelty? That may not be the right question.

The real question is how to balance the two — and how to live within that tension. It sounds abstract, but balance is rarely something you decide on once and perfect. It is something you reach gradually, through experience. Through moments when stability starts to feel heavy or stagnant — and others when constant novelty becomes draining. Over time, you begin to recognise the shift: when stability no longer feels suffocating, but steady. When it turns into calm rather than confinement.

If you are still trying to find that middle ground, here are a few practical ways to approach it: