Pearl S. Buck once wrote:
“The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanely sensitive. To them… a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death.
Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create — so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, their very breath is cut off…
They must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency they are not really alive unless they are creating.”
Most of it applies to me. I have felt the urge of creation since an early age, and I know that satisfying it keeps me whole. It’s not so much the completed products, but the very act of doing something new. Creativity itself is an addiction, but there are certainly worse things to be addicted to. It is through writing I deliver myself every single day. It is through writing that I find new meanings for the multitude of random thoughts that cross my spirit every single day.
Deep down inside, I also know I’m a hopeless romantic. That’s the only thing that explains why I wrote what I did, today. I hope you like it.
“Slow down a bit,” Annabeth whispered.
“I can’t right now,” Luke responded, filling the canvas with violent strokes of ink.
“If you do, I can create something beautiful,” she continued.
“Sleep for me now.”
He closed his eyes and her voice unearthed a new brush, painting every corner of his mind with love.