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#asbence
Where, I ask, exhausted, did my creativity go? Was it shadowed by my many burdens and finally let go? Did I forget to save a seat for it while I rode the highway of life – carrying every ounce of every day in a heavy sack by my side? Did I leave my creativity far behind and outside of the boundaries I once hungered to avoid reviving in my mind? Or has it leapt ahead of me, light-years away to a time I could never expect to write or reach? And will it only greet me again in the next life in shoes that another more worldly and traveled other would wear better than the ones I, alone, attempt to fit? Have I, just a here-and-now speck of dust that tumbles aimlessly along, reached the limit I somehow self-inflicted earlier on to stop me from rhyming more about what I might never know, or perhaps, am never meant to find? Shall my questions be the soothing pets that follow me like loyal friends but somehow stay an arms length away and whisper secrets I could never – even with a stethoscope – allow myself to hear? Knowing what I know, would I detain them to keep them near? Shall I, neither ancient, nor elder, try to understand the heart-beat silence that, like a disease, runs impatiently through these veins? If it returned, would my creative other fall like pounding rain into my arms and dissolve itself of any sin by becoming, yet again, a part of what it once was in? Would my creativity starve, or feast, by sinking and syncing deep within? If I handed it the keys, I am certain we would both deserve to win; but neither I can, and neither it will, because without each other we simply – both – are frozen, less, and still.
0
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC
pisceanesque
STUNTED
Where, I ask, exhausted, did my creativity go? Was it shadowed by my many burdens and finally let go? Did I forget to save a seat for it while I rode the highway of life – carrying every ounce of every day in a heavy sack by my side? Did I leave my creativity far behind and outside of the boundaries I once hungered to avoid reviving in my mind? Or has it leapt ahead of me, light-years away to a time I could never expect to write or reach? And will it only greet me again in the next life in shoes that another more worldly and traveled other would wear better than the ones I, alone, attempt to fit? Have I, just a here-and-now speck of dust that tumbles aimlessly along, reached the limit I somehow self-inflicted earlier on to stop me from rhyming more about what I might never know, or perhaps, am never meant to find? Shall my questions be the soothing pets that follow me like loyal friends but somehow stay an arms length away and whisper secrets I could never – even with a stethoscope – allow myself to hear? Knowing what I know, would I detain them to keep them near? Shall I, neither ancient, nor elder, try to understand the heart-beat silence that, like a disease, runs impatiently through these veins? If it returned, would my creative other fall like pounding rain into my arms and dissolve itself of any sin by becoming, yet again, a part of what it once was in? Would my creativity starve, or feast, by sinking and syncing deep within? If I handed it the keys, I am certain we would both deserve to win; but neither I can, and neither it will, because without each other we simply – both – are frozen, less, and still.
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