dancingwthesprites

[dancingwthesprites]

All I want to do is write, type, speak. I crave to use words in any way, even if it doesn’t make sense in any language. The craving lingers, scratching, and begging to be released from my brain and out in the open. Even when there are no words to be spoken, my brain refuses to silence until some form of literature has left from my fingers.

I hunger for creation.

Some days it isn’t words themselves; this urge is satisfied with drawing, painting, or even singing nonsensical words. It feels as if a parasite of creation is swimming around in my spirit. This bug no longer allows me to sit and mope in my sorrows of the past or my fears of the future. It hollers until my mind can no longer fathom what words are being yelled at me.

I walk to my desk and feel empty with no thoughts, but the bug shows up on my shoulder and whispers what words would sound prettier or more structured.

This little passenger is never unkind or hurtful with its words. I often feel as though I am being used as a muse rather than creating something myself. If I were to explain this to a family member, they might think I’m possessed by the devil himself, so I sit in silence with this parasite. My small friend feeds solely on the process of creation itself.

Is this friend actually just an extension of my creative purpose itself? Is it simply tired of being ignored by my spouts of procrastination, and taking matters into its own hands? Perhaps that is the reason I feel as if I am no longer in control. It may very well be my subconscious mind deciding it was exhausted from listening to all of my countless excuses of laziness.