I want to write. Often. I think about words all day, in between tasks, during tasks, whenever my mind is idled for a brief moment. Most often the words that come are meaningless and lack any sort of character so I disregard them and allow them to float listlessly away. I regret it too; not necessarily the missing words because lots of words come and go and some are meant to stay and some are not, but I regret the moment of creativity that was given away due to work or whatever task was at hand. Maybe it’s different for you, maybe your job or daily life requires you to be creative and maybe it even exhausts you. Maybe you want freedom from creativity. There is nothing wrong with wanting your mind at ease.

But I can’t ignore what happens when we ignore our creativity. This life is a prison without it. I even consider than a man locked behind bars with nothing but his own words could effectively have more creativity in his day than I do, and in that sense could he even have more freedom than myself? I’m not naïve; I know prison is hell, I know I have the power of choice and he does not. But when I do have time and I do want to write and I sit down to do it, quite often the words are no where to be found. Maybe I give up too soon, maybe it is my freedom that makes it so easy to pretend I can always find those words tomorrow.

I’m sure I’ve said all this before, or something like it, but every time that I do I feel as though I’m getting closer to a breaking point. A point where I have a creative thought that I can no longer hold. I’ve already taken to writing poetry at work. It could be that I’m hoping it consumes me. That it becomes unbearable not to write, not to create. Maybe then I’ll get serious. Maybe then I’ll stop working into the night for a paycheck. I used to do both, and I loved it. I loved working late and writing later, but I’ve lost it. Maybe it’s age or just time or the state of the world. Or just the state of me.

I haven’t forgotten about it. Any of it. I’m still fighting for it. I’ll grasp every tendril of thought and cling to every strand of words that drifts through my mind. Most will slip through I’m sure, but that’s the nature of these things. Like our eyes, they see so much and we process so little. I’ll catch one of them and I’ll write it down. In fact, I’ve done just that.