What’s this?

An urge, a twist, a moment when the skies open?

That absorbing, thrumming raft of a collection of ideas that shield me from the dark of nothingness clatter in my brain like colliding stars in a firmament of shooting trajectories. Then the stream begins.

It dribbles then starts to find flow.

It can be diverted or polluted by doubt but once the tiny balls of energy start rolling, who can stop them?

Comfortable and protected in my cool, cool shed, I write and play and play and write.

It is hard fun, the digging and finding, that letting and holding, that watching and listening.

I hear, therefore I am.

Then a jump… makes me pause.

Where’s this going?

I forgot the first collision of trajectories and now I’m flowing uphill, up another path. But still the same energy in my veins that must create.

Rolling, romping, smithering loss.

Yes, lost for a moment and then we’re off shooting down some narrow corridor to dare, yes dare, to write rubbish in the hope of one tiny nugget of the unexpected, the unexplored.

New turn, left, round a corner I never knew. Memories of a flooded village: beautiful, old, but holding me back now as I must open up again to the skies and the endless potential of the universe.

How can I grasp this? How can I understand all this creativity that surrounds me? Every leaf to catch and grasp for a moment as it falls from the tree of life.

The flow of food through my body,

the flow of air through my lungs,

the flow of blood through my veins,

the flow of neurons through my muscles,

the flow of sounds through my brain,

are all the flow of life’s river that must take me on the path. The creator path.

And when do I arrive?

I never arrive.

There’s always more, even if it’s hard to find.

Because I must try,

even as I allow,

even as I breathe out,

even as I clench,

even as I breathe in,

even as I dance,

even as the sounds find my hands,

I gets me closer to the creator in me,

outside me and

everywhere