It dares to be ignited. It coils and cocks its springs. It bares, to be united. It toils and flocks to things that dare to be divisive, that coil at thoughts of flings, that bare themselves, invited, that toil in souls, and sing with dares that you incited, with coils you helped to wring, with bare intent, requited. With toil, you stoop to swing.

A friend asked this question in an Instagram post. This was my response. —

Creativity is therapy, self-discovery, a way to reduce your thoughts like a sauce in a pan, till all you’re left with is a concentrated, thick syrup, preserved and bottled, but on canvases, notebooks, and diner napkins.

The greatest effect that creativity has on my life is not in its existence, but in its dire absence; my heart and mind speaks to me in riddles that only creativity can help decipher, so without it, I am awash with tangles and short tempers, until at last the tantrums drive me to write, play, sing, or simply express aloud, my volcanic eruption of unsolidified self careening down my cheeks, leaving scars on my face, and grey hairs on my head.

Better that I indulge the creativity, more for what it helps relieve, than for what it helps provide.

Days pass like throwing cardboard in the trash instead of the recycling.

Nights fade like beautiful strangers into crowds; no name, no number.

Mornings come like broken promises, creeping in, dark glasses and all.

Is it so much to ask for you to bask and fawn at what is drawn from deep, and seek to understand the man who made it so?

Is it so hard to know how far the throws may fall if none at all are caught or sought to be retrieved for me, for you, for us?

Is it so dire to lust for eyes I trust to find the truths confined in words they heard whilst listening to everything I am?

I often dream of losing it all to fire, flood, or fleeing, and romanticize my deportation back to my homeland shores, where I’d buy a house near the Cornish sea, in an unassuming coastal town that’s tucked away from tourism, and huddles boats in coves.

Maybe one day I’d paint them, on a whim, when words are not enough to capture how they bob about, in no particular hurry, with scars along their bellies that mark of a bolder past where they had purpose beyond their staying afloat.

Retired to the curiosity of those who wonder where they’ve been, what they’ve held, and what they’ve seen, they’re anchored for eternity in the salty chill of an English port, whose only sweetness comes in tea that steams in foggy windows, lit by yellow lamps for reading, with faces propped on chins in hands, dreaming out across the water to top the waves with wonder.

Cresting and collapsing, our sacrificial offerings are washed against the rocks and lost so we may live without those needs, those fantasies and fallacies, that try to trick us out of time that’s better spent distilling rhyme from dreams (not fears) where kingdoms fall, and you’re left with everything, which is nothing at all.