I planned to write, I planned to paint. I planned to do anything other than nothing. Sometimes it’s harder than it sounds.
The constant ache to create is endless; desperate, fluttering birds in my gut. Each time a bird is set free through self expression, the whole world seems just a little more tolerable, slightly less crushing. And, the beauty of it all becomes so obvious.
But, sometimes they get stuck, when life (or doubt) blocks the road, strangles the flow. The sky gets dark, the stars go out, years pass. Half the birds die, the rest hide and I get sick on rotten feathers.
The storms eventually pass and I see a hint of burning sun in the distance. I feel the birds scrambling to escape as the doors to my soul creek open, slow as mud. They tear out of me like zombies, painful and bloody.
My instinct is to push back the mutilated mess before it stumbles and splats onto my paper or canvas. But I have to let it be, let the resurrection begin. So, I’ll suffer through this ugly purging and force myself to get it all out.
One by one, each bird will be livelier. Sharp bones will grow skin and soft, soft feathers. And one day, it will all be so satisfying again.