Hyperactivity at it's finest
So here I am, first entry in this new diary thingie, and
the thought that keeps running through my mind is, "Damn,
it's about time."
And time always seems to be the enigma we chase- the pot
of gold that we can never get enough of, the water that we
must locate and survive under, the bleating of the essence
that we call life.
Yet I wax poetic for a moment. It's one of my fatal flaws.
And god does it feel wonderful to be sitting down and
actually writing something again. My soul breathes, and the
little demon of creativity is out to bring new angels to
the surface. I caress the keyboard much as a bragadocious
pianist, a pound here, a flair with the enter key, a grin
on my face, almost like a literary Liberace, without the
obvious setbacks and personal directions.
A day of creativity is our season of divinity. This is
something that both compels, and propels me. The world is
an empty slate waiting to be filled, or rather, a library
full of books that require words. Much like a car that has
had the interior stripped out, and now it is your turn to
restore it. There is beauty both in the process, as well as
in the end result. These are keys to the soul, the gate of
the mind, the sword of the intellect. Genii are born in
such less manner.
Thus, I find that every second of spiritual creation is
one step closer to God, closer to love, closer to light,
and everything that encompasses the notion.