so it begins
just like this
a way that feels insignificant
(just like all great things)
a girl, typing on a keyboard
on a bleak January day
and her cup of coffee sits beside her, of course
her dog lays at her feet
it is audibly quiet
and mentally loud
and so she types
desperately needing something to make sense
for distractions to remain flung aside
for creativity to take over
this is the hard rocky ground before you strike water
these first few
(Sentences. Paragraphs. Pages. Chapters. Books.)
maybe the deeper and more powerful, the cleaner and more pure the water flow,
the more you must dig
and you must
otherwise, the water will be muddy
the color of her coffee that lays untouched
because even the act of lifting up the heavy mug to her lips may interrupt the flow
(This is such a weird thing)
to be connected and attached to this idea that’s not fully yours
to stress and strain and feel insignificant and incapable only to come back to the same place:
Writing is really just moving yourself out of the way so
Something else can speak through you
so why should I worry?
why should I fear?
why shouldn’t I just trust You
the voice
creativity Himself
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