Poetry

My creativity has died. Seriously. I can’t think of new things to say or do. And with the end of my creativity comes a feeling of naught. A feeling that screams silence. A feeling of a nothingness like a heavy fog that’s not quite there but everywhere.

I can’t remember the last time I felt like this but it must have been years ago; what I can remember is that one of the few things that brought me comfort was art. Poetry.

There are few things in this world that can combine existential absurdity with sincere meaning. Like the parent of a newborn staring into its eyes for the very first time: at once both a gift of God, and a pitiful being born into a pitiful world.

A pitiful being who will, one day, be looking into its parents eyes and thinking the exact same thing.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s