Short thoughts on creation

Some times I’m met with the supremely profound. Others I’m a grey rag, not an ounce of vigour.

The raw urge of biological creation pulls me – is this a sensible choice? Surely, if I expend creative will I’m left only a dry husk. Is containment cultivation? Or can expression find some other channel? Out by the body; out by the pen.

In this, practice is the essence; a long-drawn-out habit. A nest, home for the Muse to lay his lyre. The same old routines jog my synapses; sparks leap over yawning maws of nothing, to land and touch new spirit. Transformation cascades, rotating chemical storms until… an idea is born.

What is this feeling then, wilful creation? The word itself has will, rising to the fore by its own power. My arms shake and shudder in its passage, the spring lies not within me. What I am is a string, plucked by the unrelenting force of creation. A pure note ringing out in a sea of static.

Perhaps we all buzz in a mix of eigen-tones. With focus, we each sing in simple clarity. Put together, we hum in perfect unity.