the process of creativity

[*someone asked me to define creativity. i was impressed that such a question even came up. no, i did not have to do any soul searching to find an appropriate answer. what i did do, however, is begin writing. no, i’m not paying attention to any theme. actually, nevermind. read the below and see if you can find out for yourself what creativity is.*]

Why do cats like being washed is a question I ask myself every other night before I enter a pre-sleep stage of washing dishes, fixing up my hair, loosening up my morals and procrastinating my usual self into an illusion that things will get done. For a long time now, I wondered and marveled at the many questions that are before me, all staring me in the eye like blindfolded dogs at a fellow comrade’s funereal. Ideology is a dirty little world that is used by inner circle elites who think being part of an obnoxious social clique will get them cheap gas and cheaper prostitutes. I fan over the flames of passion with vodka and wash down any prospect of potentially stimulating intellectual retaliation with a pint of sincerity.

I don’t want to sound like a midwife who just delivered the child from hell. I mean can you imagine what it must be like to find out that your second husband crashed his lunar lander into a seafood factory? It must be awful to have to retell the story to your deaf relatives who are more interested in how to win over their high school sweetheart’s, by now atrophied, love. Creating manifestos is not an art for the generous. Yes, ideas are helpful when…

Where was I? Oh right. Cats. Can those animals ever escape captivity? Who cares if they have lawyers working in Egypt and Libya if they can’t find enough excuses to lift a few more pounds of excess debris from their conscious? I wonder if flowers can grow in space. A fully matured housefly can probably consume more protein in the summer than a house ant can on Sundays. Violence often, and sometimes does, breaks out when light is a commodity being manipulated by apologetic tycoons. Do you think that dust particles can read? I never thought of music to be so incredibly fast forward.

I just remembered why I’m writing. It has nothing to do with a purpose, a goal or any other teleological exercise imposed on my by some ridiculously short, bald and on some days, ugly academic. These people are so pathetic that even when I throw up from disgust I can’t feel pity. Wind instruments are rather dull and pragmatically speaking, do not interest me. So what if I sound like I just laid a “myopian” egg? Tell those highfalutin pompous viruses who sit atop a stool and whistle derogatory noise, as if someone cared enough to convince themselves that a discussion would actually make sense, to sit back and keep quiet – before I find myself compelled to offer them a fresh start. I want to take a break but I think my fingers are in control.

Don’t lie. You’re a zoo member and you like animals just as much as you like your milk.


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Filed under creativity, life, philosophy, poetry, prose, spiritual, Uncategorized

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