This was originally written to an old friend. I decided to share.
I often stand in front of the new poetry section at the library. I read their titles, their names on their binding like breath taking form on ribs. I wait for the shelves to breathe so they can expand, open, and spill all their words into the air as a million whispers, laughs, cries, and screams.
I rarely pluck one out.
When I do I am usually disappointed.
I stood there this past Monday and fingered the ribs. I pulled one out titled, “Silverchest” by Carl Phillips. I read one poem and checked it out.
One poem. It whispered to me and stirred my depths. Words formed in my mind. By the time I reached my car I had to pull out the “receipt” and write on the back.
Afterward, I thought (as I often think), “What is creativity, really?” Those thoughts, those words, all of the poems over all the years… even when I try to shut them down… (why shut them down you ask) start with very little thought on my part. They come like waves or wind... sometimes massive snow drifts.
Is my job to put them into some tangible form that makes sense to others? Do they even need to make sense? For years now I have been in the mindset of “Why bother?”
Perhaps, because, it is actually the only activity that makes sense.
Be inspired. Create. Share. Inspire others.