Playing With Fire

And just like that the words were gone. With just a click, hours of work, deleted. Another piece of shitty writing. Maybe I was too tired. Maybe I didn't have it. I wanted to have it. The ability to write beautifully. To move people with my words. I thought I could. I wanted to believe in the part of me that thought that. The piano played as I sat in the kitchen, deleting my shitty writing. I was hung up. Attempting to write about creativity; attempting to be creative while writing about the origins of creativity. I had trapped myself. Wrote myself into a corner. But there were thoughts I was flirting with and it was hard to shake something once my mind was on it. Where does creativity come from? And just like that, I was back in the trap. Going in circles. I couldn’t shake it and once I really thought about it, I got stuck. There was too much to think about and I wasn't that smart. I was barely a shitty writer. Hours of work, for nothing. Just a click. My pinky finger moving up a few inches, and then, holding down the delete button. In 7-15 seconds all of my work would be gone. Maybe it hadn’t been that bad? Maybe I was onto something? But then again, maybe I was rambling again with concepts I could hardly grasp. Playing with fire. Playing with an element that had too much influence on my writing. Creativity. That bitch. Who is she? Why is it that sometimes she flows, while other times, she ceases to be entirely? Like a dam. Is she a she? Probably not. It’s probably the alcohol, the weed, the nicotine and the anxiety that was making me call creativity a woman. It was getting late. 9pm. Late for me. I had to be up for my shitty job in the morning. But right now, I could listen to the piano and pretend to be a writer. Like Bukowski. Like Hemingway. LIke Tolstoy. Like Rand. Like Orwell. A few of the creative minds I liked. Inspirations to the creative minds. And for a few hours, in my kitchen, I got to pretend to be like them. With my shitty writings. That got deleted.