Why is creativity like the sea
crashing and retreating into infinity?
Oh, if it were constant.
But what is constance?
Unlike the sky with its everchanging colors and moods.
Unlike the trees --
their leaves, they change
roots digging
bark peeling, healing.
Unlike the beasts --
birthing and dying,
evolving and migrating.
Unlike people --
they grow, they sink,
their hearts become tattered,
their bodies defeat themselves.
If only I were constant.
But I am as floating as last year's love. A love so craved -- a love we ran for and caught up with.
But we ran too fast; our breaths dashed, our ankles cracked.
You asked me why I ran, and now I say to you --
why don't you?