how did i write? there used to be these overwhelming surges of colorful ideas that would pour out of me in unpredictable, unhindered expression. the overcast skies of self-criticism would break open and the lightning bolts of inspiration would explode. my fingers would become keys and the keys the birthers of worlds, full of ideas, beauty, fear, love, humanity. nouns created life, those lives spun in emotion, those emotions painted colors on the landscape and gave shape to a world. a world without anyone watching. a place where boundaries erected and melted without defining anything. it was dance, it was movement, it was rhythm.
i stopped watching the movies in the creative jello, and danced in it instead.
the lines of first and third person were blurred. personalities where breathed in and exhaled. direction was not important. aim was not taken. sights were not set. i danced the rhythm of mind, fully present, aware, alive.
given the passage of time:
fluidity of movement breaks all barriers.
imagination erodes doubt
expression detoxifies form
and creation explodes.
there...
i am, the i am.
purified. alive.
a writer is an artist, whose medium is language. whose color values display in arrangements of words. i will paint you a story. and type you a work of art.
the artist illuminates creation.
creation is the rhythm that moves us all.
