Finnicky
awkward is creation. I come up with the most spellbinding works of art, when
I’m in the shower, when I’m lying in bed before sleep, when I’m scrubbing my
toilet. A direct feed should transmit what’s in my head. The ideas. I flailingly
pencil as I write them, tied tongue when I speak them, chicken scratch sketches.
They are never quite the object envisioned. They are shadows, reflections, portraits
out of proportion. The muse sparkles with water-coloured emotions dancing naked
in the moonlight like no one is watching.
But
she is bashful.
She
scurries away while I’m playing with the zoom on the camera. Even so, I love my
creations despite them not quite being what I had in mind. Like George Constanza
I may never have children. This is my legacy, these are my babies, even
if they’re misshapen.
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