starting to begin

Sometimes, you need to start in order to begin, you know?

Does that make sense to you? No? Me either, but let's give it a shot together, ok?

Creativity ebbs and flows for me. There is no steady stream, bottomless well, nothing like that. I know that creativity needs exercise, just as our bodies do. I know that to you have to flex those ingenuity muscles so they don't atrophy.

If I know this, why is it so difficult?

Why do I receive these tiny compulsions of needing to make something, but have no idea what manifestation needs to take place? Should I write something? My fingers itch to make marks on paper, but what shape do I attempt? Color would make everything clearer, but what color is it that I want? I don't think it has a name yet, and I can't name it when I don't know what hue my eyes are looking for.

My peers are inventing brilliant arrangements of words, fabrics, color, sounds... Did they just start to begin? Do their inventions come after feeling becomes too much? Would I be able to feel more by emptying a little?

And is that how it works? You know, like, you can't figure out how to pour a little bit into a different glass, so what's there is still from when Hannah was mean to you in the fourth grade and you didn't get the job in Germany you wanted when you were 20 years old. What other processes could have taken place if there had been a little breathing room?

Sometimes I think my creativity is only able to stretch it's arms through restriction. I need someone to tell me to write an essay, about one specific topic, and keep it to three pages. What I end up with is a character for a novel, magazine clippings to collage, and lyrics to hum into the recorder of my cell phone, so I don't forget the melody later.

Maybe this post will be it. Maybe my big breakthrough is right around the corner, and I'm still jobless in this new city because I was meant for something great right. now. and I'm on the cusp of it. Maybe it's just because the market is saturated, and I need to try waitressing.

Maybe on my walk to the convenience store, because my muscles are gasping for a little air, I'll spot the unnamed hue that is waiting for me to name it.