does age reduce creativity?
wanting to write and being able to write are completely different things now..
that wasnt the case.. words would flow.. they would capture me in the oddest of moments.. not necessarily beautiful words or thoughts to move anyone.. but words nevertheless.. they used to be my friends.. my companions in the solitude ..
now they seem to have de-friended me..
age was easiest to blame.. but maybe it is life..
maybe it is getting caught in this trauma of a daily routine..
of running madly..
not having a dream.. or being afraid to have one..
or finding them too hard to accomplish and just burying them in the sand..
now washed away by the tides..
with no time to look for new ones..
There’s this problem always of being unsatisfied with anything that goes on…
this urge for change..
to go ahead of where one is and at the same time to stay and relax and think..
none of these happen…
all that happens is a run
a continuous fight against fate willing it to change..
never feeling good about what it sees us as..
rather wanting it to see us the way we want to..
and then end up in despair..
only to get up and go on again..
on this corner of the road I stand waiting for a signal…
Beauty is everywhere.
It is all real.
It is all there.
It is the wrinkles in grandma’s hand.
It is the twinkle in the eyes of the little lad.
It is the starkness of Death valley.
It is the tear stained stories of a street alley.
It is the glass of water on a hot day.
It is the torn soles of a construction worker.
It is the sweat on Dad’s forehead.
It is the pat on the back.
It is the encouraging smile of a kindly boss.
It is the rain after a long summer.
It is the warm day after a biting winter.
It is the sound of bells in a temple.
It is the quiet breaths of a church.
It is the path seldom followed.
It is the road to the city where everyone goes.
It is the dimple of the girl next door.
It is the laughter of the guys on the road.
It is the angst ridden poem of a teenager.
It is the contented sigh of a mother.
It is the scream of ecstacy of a lover.
It is the spilt blood of a soldier.
It is the soft skin of a baby.
It is the purr of a kitten.
It is the roar of a lion.
It is the eeriness of the forest at night.
It is the calm of the sea at low tide.
Beauty is you.
Beauty is me.
** Written as a part of the Dove and Yahoo Real Beauty Contest at Indiblogger. To vote and read other views on Real Beauty, go here. Usually paranoid about my creative abilities, this was one more step in overcoming that fear. Your comments, suggestions and critique is really appreciated.
Also check out Yahoo! Real Beauty, the one stop shop for all things beautiful and related to making yourself beautiful 🙂
You know IndieInk? The fab set of people who write for composition, not competition? Well they have a writing challenge going on..
And one of the writers Jason, was challenged to use an art submission on the site as inspiration to write. He used the photo (below) of mine to write this:
I love artists’ brains.