Like anything you lose because you don’t use it, creative brain cells can atrophy. Words set aside and forgotten. Ideas on scraps of paper that fade with time, or fall apart from being carried from place to place, but never put down on something harder, more concrete, permanent.
You know your ability to create was not a fluke. It was there for years, from childhood, beyond adulthood.
Then you don’t feel like writing one day, then the next, and the next. Then one of those next days becomes a year. Those journals you were filling month after month, take a year to finish.
Then comes the journal you never finish. It’s as if you stopped living. There’s nothing to write about.
Then came you.
You brought that back to me. You filled my creative well with inspiration. Feelings that were new, made life exciting, like unexpected gifts, an unwarranted bouquet of flowers on your work desk, or doorstep.
Sunshine bursting through dark clouds.
A heart stilled, skipping a beat smoothly, like that thrown stone across the water. Ripples building and spreading further and further until they reach the other side and the entire pond is nothing but happiness. A love so strong that it pulls you under, and you gulp for air, your heart and lungs full to capacity with immeasurable pleasure.
Butterflies of delight flutter and lift you up because you’re as light as a feather. And you cannot stop writing because there’s too much to say, words flowing faster than your fingers can type.
So you put them here this time. Some place harder, more concrete, permanent.