I want to write. I am a writer. I swear it. Words to say, methods of fashioning language; shape it up already, gracefully. Slightly sometimes. Question mark. Stumbling a little. I have a stream of consciousness whose laugh and boisterous bellow take charge of a room. Of a page. Yes, I can write with style, finesse, and previsioned contour. Silhouettes of retracting, ominous words lurking behind shadows, beckoning to be chewed. Chew it up, spit it out. Alls I care is that you get the taste. Ideas for sale. Free of charge. Labor of reading only required. I have words. I swear it; moods, outlooks, pressure to impress. Contagious ideologies miraculously urging to take flight. I have guts to punch. Serious guts to sock hard. Ironies to illuminate. Notions to shred. Words to write.
I don’t regularly.
Likewise, I am an artist. Did you know? No. Barely anyone does. Faces to paint, color schemes to meticulously mold, sentiment to convey, inspiration to dispense, expression and sensation to govern. I don’t.
I DID. I did. I do… sometimes occasionally.
Nagging, forever harassing, weighted feeling. She tells me so. SHOUTS at me. Write. Shatters the monotonous glass of the daily grind. Paint. Wheels regularly screech, the burning stench of elusive minutes seared and scorched up in a cloud of trandescent smoke. Vapors of ruined days.
Compact, solid bricks, heavy and dense, filled with dishes, laundry, floors to be washed. Hard, solid phone calls to be made, countless stone appointments to be set. Granite papers to be graded, dense amounts of homework to be checked. Steely books to be read, thick, massive projects to be created, deadlines to be met. Heavy and debilitating. Pulling, tugging, tumbling. Backbreaking and numbing. To be met. Met. Met. And met.
It begs. Oh my God. Pleads, implores to create. It cries. Do you hear the tears crashing to the floor? Bottomless pools of somber, grieving squandered time. I hear it. With every minute. With every crashing tear.
Not generating clean dishes, floors, or fresh laundry. Not assessments. Not just spawning new unit plans or appointments to schedule, running the gamut, racing the wheel.
Stuff stuff stuff will remain, stuff. Won’t it? Will it?
My God, I won’t be.
Like the vanishing tide, evaporating puddles, fading sun; the minutes corrode.
Washed away, threatened momentously with each passing instant. Here it comes. Look. There it goes.
If I do not take the time to create, to tap into that infinite place of design, the original, innovative thought and applicable manifestation of it, the thief has a selfish way of pulling the slip. Time is tightfisted and unforgiving. Miserly robbing the busy with reckless abandon.
Stealthily, or what the hell, maybe with a bold explosive bang, I’m compelled to tap into the imaginative place where dreams take flight and self subsides. A sacred place where fingers fly and time seemingly stands still. Owning the time. Hours glide, pages sour, brushes gracefully and tediously maneuverer; entranced with the gift of creation. Creation has that momentous effect. Delivering holy creativity, an entity all its own, innovative endeavors risked by few. These few stand up to time, stare him square in the face, and give him a swift jab to the jugular. Causing time to gasp for breath, debilitating just enough for the imaginative to come into fruition and take shape. The novel idea spun to life. In this time. From this person. Take that time. That is novel enough for me.