The Creative


It was just the end of the day, hushing softly into night, faster than a silk slip that hummingbirds between two fingers, gone before you know her magic is truly there.

Morning had flashed by on gossamer flutter, had left in her wake a graffiti of mountains, an impression of rivers in the original medium, each imperfection perfect as the serifs she’d just scrawled on the first page of art history. She created line, breakage.

Next had come daytime, a roaring symphony of feathered waves that chattered about the essential truths of life and death – that is, the logistics of copulation – churning the flowery sea below with a rain of next springtide’s nectar-haired children. She created the day to vanquish and glorify life’s two sides, a whorl-worn oneness for a two-faced rock in space.

Too soon arrived evening, unprecedented ariser, her prodigy stalking on four midnight paws, the orange-eyed genius bold to moon’s peppercorn pique and the cauldron of silenced shrieks that roils in the forest for an artisan’s ear. The genius of cat she created: the hitchhiker of the moment, immune to the sting of pleasure lost, yet soft to the fire of love when the constellations sit well with her growling contentedness.

It was just the end of the day, and magic had already been invented down to the details of the flaws in the leaf-lines,

and already she had created art, mountains, and music to move them; she had created creation itself in the tender sculpting of the womb; she had created blood-wrenching destruction in the claws of a forest princess of love; she had disestablished the monarchy of time, the useless markers of nothingness that our earliest philosophers had suggested just to slow our crawl towards truth; and yes,she had created very truth, the idea that there is meaning in nothingness, without flailing such clunky soundless words, the scaffolding that holds our mind-threads in place.

It was just the end of the day, and I, an amateur inhabitant, arrived yolk-wet to a glittering sunset, the original symphony composed in an afterthought breath by the whales, and my time had come to decide what I was going to create,

in my turn to contribute to this great sprawling history of perfect things already imagined by minds more imaginative than mine can muster

and I couldn’t create the sunset, and the line was already taken, so I

sat down, took up my pen, and borrowed the words that giggled between grassblades, and gathered the petals of day to remind tomorrow this scent of what has already been – and that is all I did, not really anything new or legendary,

the legendary was already made

and the best I can now create is my simple joy because I am somewhere inside it, imperfect.



Image sources in order of appearance:

By Gleb Tarro – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0,

By Winslow Homer – 1. Unknown2., Public Domain,

By Dmitri Popov (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (, via Wikimedia Commons


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