One last time, for the time being, I’ll wax poetic about creativity.
What does it mean to be creative?
Create. Create. Create.
I can repeat the word like a chant, but it won’t lead to anything.
It’s a pleasurable act, one that can release a desired catharsis.
Write a simple line, something bold that provokes the mind.
Or buy a model from the local hobby shop. Open the box and put the pieces together according to the instructions.
Enter the clay studio, look the retirees in the eye and say, “I’m here too.”
Manipulate the wet clay with your hands until it’s something you like.
Everyday, I pine to do something creative. Yet, the littlest things get in my way.
Most days, I excuse my laziness with self-love. The couch, the TV and a stretch of idle time make me happy.
So, everyday I must try. Write a line on a sheet of paper. Make a little plan. Do something, do anything to be creative. And I’ll be happy because of it.
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