I miss the time when my pen would touch the paper and just run with its own strange effort, at its own pace, as if some knowledge of me was fundamentally laid into its ink, some knowledge I didn’t have, but the pen did. I miss the time when I didn’t write poetry... when poetry wrote me. It wrote my life, because my life was reasonably paced, paced well enough for my thoughts to have the time to settle at the tip on the pen, without me noticing, just to fill the white sheets in front of me at the very first breath of creative air, to my own surprise, to my relief, to my happiness. Life has become so jammed with things. Is it a matter or progress, growing up, or both? Where did they go, all of the creative bits that used to flood my head? They are still alive when I dream, but seem to dissolve every morning. They disappear under the weight of all the burdens I work so hard to multiply daily. They get hushed down by the buzz of life.
"I believe if there's any kind of God it wouldn't be in any of us, not you or me but just this little space in between. If there's any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it's almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt."
~ Celine, Before Sunrise.