I am not feeling creative today. Yet I feel that pre-cursor to creativity, that restless, floating, can’t quite catch the nagging feeling. The wait-a-sec there is something worth making, worth telling, that does not actually want me to allow it to come into being. That revels in sneakiness.
That little bastard.
And thus I am left to simmer. And snap. And bubble in frustrated annoyance that my mind will not reveal to me what sits at the edge of my comprehension.
Almost knowing, but not, left to long to linger, turns to rot. To red anger and frustrated opaque bursts out jagged pieces of unknown feelings.
To scatter in word bit pieces, slashes in fabric. Dark creases in the canvas later you will regret. But by then, too late, you are drained. And. That feeling. That gremlin of a feeling, wreaking havoc upon your mood. Your day twisted to its whims, gone. Like the reminder of breeze one summer’s day in DC. Caught sweltering in a swampy land of bits and pieces, misbegotten things, temporarily permanent.
In this aftermath. This place of chaos, flung feelings, shapes like Dali’s clock hanging, melting, becoming. Something worth finding. Worth making
That sneaky bastard.