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Nothing moves me lately. At least, I am not moved strongly enough, to grab a pen and paper, like when I was in my late teens, and the words would just start banging on the insides of my skull, banging with the percussion of each heart beat, sometimes in the middle of the night, banging so urgently, persistently, relentlessly and without compromise, that I wouldn’t have a choice but to grab a pen and paper, just to let them out.

Some people can start writing at the drop of a hat. I envy these people, a little. They don’t need this moment of extreme urgency to overwhelm them to the point when the volcanic glass of the heart is so full. Filled to the brim with sensations, emotions, ideas, longings, desires, feelings, so completely that it erupts. It overflows into the outside world, not as destructive and all burning lava, but as an intricate woven fabric of letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, pages of poems and stories. Creating space in the volcanic heart, allowing it to relax and beat calmly and rationally for a while. With the great satisfaction of “mission accomplished”. A mysterious mission that no one here gave me, so no one can take it away.

Ahh, that moment. When spirit becomes. The weightless, intangible, elusive impulse acquires tactible, concrete, recognizable shapes. A magic of synesthesia of sorts, when one sense comes through as another, when a sensation translates into a word, a riff, an image, a movement. Existence being born again, everytime inspired feelings become inspired thoughts, and inspired thoughts become written words, music, a painting, a dance, a child… When in the space of a little cosmic nothingness appears a still unintelligible physical something, filled with opposites, they intertwine and grow for months and eventually become. A manifested spirit, imbued with their own individual mission.

Yes, every written story is another baby. I guess it cannot be born till it’s ready and has grown to the size in which it can survive independently in the outside world. Seemingly separate from its original source and from the physical channel it came through. Mother. …Well, when you are ready, my next little story, I am here to help you become.

And when you are here, iridescent and magnetic, glorious and exquisite just by the fact of being expressed, bravely having crossed the invisible barrier to be seen and touched and heard, maybe even smelled and tasted by a few sensitive ones – be prepared to be never understood. Rather interpreted, at most. Into yet another elusive sensation, fleeting emotion, liberating idea, undisclosed longing, enigmatic desire, fragile feeling… Back to the intangible, haunting realm of the unexpressed. The neverending story of life, recreating itself.