There is a lot I notice about living the creative life. The major thing is that there is a long period where all creativity vanishes and the world goes black and white. All the colors are drained and it’s hard to see or feel. — and that’s when I doubt if I am a writer. Of course I never call myself that, maybe on an occasion I’ll say it here and there, but I never really mean it. Writer. That’s such a big, beautiful word. It comes with so much. It comes with persistence, courage, patience, perhaps even a bit of doubt.
“What do you do?”
I write. That’s all I say. “I love writing. I write.”
I am not a writer, but I write. What I write is not mine, but is rather passed through me. I am the vessel for words of some kind that fall to pages. Most of the time when I write, I don’t even realize I’m doing it. The words come, and I’m not aware of them. They flow like water. Sometimes they come so fast my head spins and my fingers type away with madness. Sometimes my pen moves so fast the letters fall off the lines, but whose words are these? Surely they are not mine. I read the writing after, and mostly I am satisfied because I’ve been chosen. The little ghost writer of the universe chose me to bleed life onto pages. I was picked to write, called with a great urgency to run for a pen and a paper, or to grab my phone and type away. It happens so fast, and it feels like Love. After I’ve accepted the call, it’ll keep coming. I’ll write when I’m asked to, the words will come through me and it’ll fill the pages. I’ll feel high, my mood will be elevated. I’ll FEEL the world. Every detail of every person. I’ll fall in love with the world, I’ll see it with beauty beyond normal. Everything becomes art.
Then… suddenly… it grows dark. It’s slow at first, but it eventually stills. I’m left trying to breathe, trying to make sense of my life. Trying to put the pieces together. Trying to WRITE. It doesn’t come. It’s like scraping metal against metal and hoping for a song. I keep writing anyway and piece after piece, day after day, nothing is beautiful and everything is forced. I am left to wonder why I wasn’t picked again when I’ve answered all the calls. At times I’d get angry, and when the call comes I don’t answer because I want it to leave me alone. It sits around, it waits patiently and sometimes it would laugh because it knows that I need it to breathe and to live. Without the words, there is a block in my throat that keeps growing. Why would it pick me then toss me away? The world is dark without the light that passes through me when the words come.
I’m writing this to say that all that you’ve ever read has not been mine. Anything that’s ever made you feel was beyond what I, as a mere human, could ever compose. It is from the source of LOVE, from the source of all creation that it comes. The words that move you are eternal. They are beyond what even I am able to perceive. I know it may be difficult to understand, but I only write, I’m no writer. I am selected every now and then and it is my duty to bring it to your awareness. I’m an interpreter, not even that, I’m a glass wall.
I work with some other kind of existence, and I am blessed to do that, so I am grateful.