It’s heavy, the way creativity streams through the blood, the brain. Seeing life, the tiniest of specs floating through the air, the immense nature of our universe and beyond, the abstract view of flickering lights and solidity of concrete foundations. It all affords an individual the creative license to use any language of expression to make the point, no matter how sharp or dull.
There is a place for every bit no matter the size or depth of their intentions. How one fits the details together, and how one fits among those details will determine the end result, lest it be judged. The personality within the expression, only described through one’s own perspective, is as unique as the deep red crimson interior of a pomegranate, as common as a match, a knife, a stick and a pair of garden gloves. Or possibly dice, a pencil and a small piece of paper. Maybe even, a whirlwind of autumn leaves in red, yellow, brown, purple, and orange as a child chases the circling nature. Just one step in the process of an origin story of those same leaves. It’s quite possible to cycle through the senses in the morning to tamp down unnecessary anxiety, somehow a connection to the creative process that only they will know.
Deep within the sentence, or lodged among the welds of a kinetic sculpture, they lose something every time. An artist will leave behind a minuscule piece of themselves that will only emerge for those willing to see.