Creation is a funny thing, don’t you think?
It is one of those things we live for, that makes life worthwhile. And yet it also tears us apart, torments us to no end. It is intricate, complicated, unfathomable and untameable. Yet throughout this, we find comfort in creation, we find love in all the adversary it throws our way. And no matter what happens, in the end, we always return.
We are two, co-dependant, always with each other.
When I think of creativeness, creating, I think of my writing, of the sentances and paragraphs I lay down onto the page. I think to all the endless possibilities that reside within my mind. Also, I think of the times when those possibilites seem to do nothing but hide, do everything but show their faces. These are the times of torment, when there is no creative power readily available, no matter how much you know it is there somewhere.
And then, without warning, without any sense of anything at all, the gates thrust themselves open. From this seemingly newfound viewpoint, once again all things appear clearer than they ever have been before. You hear the voices of your characters, the groans of the worlds they inhabit, the ticking of the plot lines. You are in heaven, because once again creation is possible. The very lifeforce that imbues us has returned. Something we can take maximum pleasure in.
It comes in bursts, filling a part of us that can be touched in no other way. Essentially, we are creation, without the ability we feel lifeless, unable to cope without rationalising things into words, pictures, paintings. It is what we live for, yet it is what makes us live. It is in the faces of the people on the street, the hills and mountains in the far distance, the sun’s reflection on a still lake in the evening. It is the world around us.
It is a drug. An addiction.
One I never want to sober up from.