Every day, every week, every month,
Plenty of things come and go, passing me by.
The sight I see, the sound I hear, the emotion I feel.
I get inspired by them, but I doubt;
Have I ever created something really from scratch?
Are my words completely originating from me?
Or is it a collection of somebody’s quotes?
My thoughts, my ideas, my works,
Are they all coming from inside me?
Or is it a patchwork from somebody’s arts?
And I believe as if it belongs to me?
Every night, every morning, every time,
I can have flashes of inspiration.
It’s an accumulation of memories.
It might be a scene I’ve seen the other day,
It might be a story I overheard somewhere.
They are stacked up, matured, and modified in my little brain.
It is wandering and passing me by,
It is sparkling and floating around you.
On your shoulder or on your back, and
It is transparently kissing your hair.
Are we pursuing creativity?
Or does the muse find us?
Is creativity reachable?
Or is it heritable?
The muse is coming and going around me, and in my mind.
As soon as it arrives, it’s gone just like the sand blown by the wind.
I try to catch you, but you are slipping through my fingers.
I knew you were there, behind me,
But as I turned around, you vanished as if scraped by the air.
One day, I want to be capable to pull all of you onto my pages.
Until then, I will try to enjoy playing with you, it’s my sparkling joy.