My fingers are dry as I hover over the keyboard, staring at the white tundra of an empty “New Post” page. No ideas. I HAVE NO IDEAS. No – that’s not quite true. I feel creative. I feel things moving, changing, forming in my mind. But they’re mind-things, not world-things. I am the clay being molded, this time. All of my energy, all of my creativity, is currently occupied interiorly. Thus I have no ideas for words on a page – or lines, or notes in a song.
Poor blog sits fallow. NaNoWriMo draft unedited. Piano gathers dust. Pencils in a drawer. But no creativity is metastasizing unused here, no ma’am, it’s alive, you just can’t see it. This art is not for popular consumption. Though perhaps, in time, you may feel the brush of the wind it creates.