Creativity, from whence does it come? From what bowel lingering was it displaced? By what method of transport? Along which pipe or wire? It seems to come from nowhere, to arise out of empty ashes; sporadically, uninvited and randomly. It taps on your door with an invisible fist, knocking out any loose teeth in the process. It cannot be pinned down. It cannot be labelled. It is wild like the beast, gesticulating madly in its fits of freedom; unbound by any mere measurement. We respect it cautiously, frightened that it might flee. At any moment, from any angle, at any time in your mediocre day it might rear it’s glowing head, only to slip away into opaque shadows in an instant, leaving you all the more baffled as to its whereabouts. You can never become too familiar, you can never become acquainted; it is a lone rider, greeting you when barely no one is around. Fuelling you mercilessly with the abundance needed for good food- laying colours and melodies upon your artistic table at which fans feast, only to whip away the cloth beneath when the notion has passed, leaving a pile of mangled and disordered mash. It is temperamental. Yet, it always returns. No matter in how minute a dose, or how grand a spectacle, it always turns up to inspire, releasing it’s energy within the being through which it is channelled, vibrating on so many levels; providing fulfilment; retaining the mystery and magic which being untameable gives it; leaving you feeling that for at least once, when it is in your presence, you as a being on this planet were truly alive…

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