the poet and the painter

Oh how the poet longs to be set loose. Alas the painter is what remains. 

Living in a new place; that’s not really new, its old but new to me, an old kind of new and new kind of old. Its a strange occurrence. To live in the country I was born in. I knew this would happen, would happen in this way and arise these emotions. Hasn’t ceased the tide from coming to keep me. 


Truly my creativity has come to keep me these days, and it’s not such a poor thing. I’d rather say its quite handy when one makes a life from creativity. However it does fail to provide a certain safety and comfort. It’s only comfortable because it is familiar and little else. But its the path I’ve chosen, and as my mother has said I am stubborn. 


When I think about it, I don’t quite like the circumstances I’ve placed myself in. But when I simply live, it is quite agreeable. Go figure for how that all sits in peace in my mind. For it doesn’t. I am the sea where Atlantic meets Pacific and the line is oh so visible. I endeavour to find the mixing pot and make something of the apposing convictions. Yet I am only young, as far as the universe is concerned, so it may be some time yet before peace is truly upheld. 


The outworking of creativity and emotional upheaval is something of a wonder to my own witnessing. To see the plain as day evidence of my creativity functioning and productively at that, its a wonder. I truly have not even picked up a brush nor pen in true attempt to work it out, simply continued to live. The words simply come to me, as if through divine inspiration, the colours much the same. A wonder, a sign and a wonder that has truly made me wonder a great many things. 


I’ll place the painter and poet in timeout a moment to speak plainly. The writing, editing and revising has been silky smooth in a way I can not explain nor understand, but I’ll continue to run with for as long as I can. The attempts to paint have been just as tranquil and it has baffled me to no end. But I ought not look a gift horse in the mouth, so I shan’t. 


The painter ever remains resolute. The poet ever sneaky and full of mischief. 

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