Remembering Creativity

Writer’s block is something I’ve become

all too familiar with,

the blank screen or piece of paper screaming

at me with a loud emptiness,

mocking and teasing my lack of ideas.

To think I used to describe myself as creative…

hah.

That aspect of myself,

that spark inside,

that burst of imagination and

will to create—

that is no longer a part of me.

It’s slowly been pushed out

and suffocated,

a mop rung and dried completely

of its contents,

a tube of toothpaste squeezed empty

from the thoughts of adulthood,

the worries, the fear of reproach,

the harsh striking slap of reality

looming around every corner

ready to pounce.

As a child, all I wanted to do was create,

however the results may turn out--

no expectations,

no judgements,

no worries of what others would say about me or my work

when my back was turned.

And so the creativity swirled out of me, however it could,

grasping my markers or chalk or paint brush,

collecting vases full of sea shells

for my fairy houses,

pushing the camcorder button,

or typing out manically the newest of my short stories,

words flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup

slithering while they passed, slipped across the universe.

Concocting a product out of mere

vacuum,

something out of nothing--

What a beautiful existence.

I’d like to think my creativity

never really died,

but perhaps instead became dormant—

took a nap for a long while

in a far off garden shed perhaps,

waiting with the other childhood attributes

that long to get out and be among the flowers once more,

finally, permitted to release itself

without fear of others’ opinions

or even my own...

especially my own.

If I can relinquish creativity from its prison of

overthinking, overanalyzing,

and fear of rejection,

then perhaps it will surface as it did before,

awakened from its lengthy slumber

ready to reunite with me

like an old friend

Quote from song “Across the Universe” by the Beatles