Buried deep within my soul is a fire. It burns slowly; smouldering inside me day after day.
I long for the day when this fire rages again. Like it used to before I smothered it with life.
Before kids, before mortgages, bills, illnesses and medical interventions, there was something else on my mind. It was fuelled by almost everything around me and grew stronger with every use.
This was something that took me through dark spiralling tunnels, across cobalt blue seas with purple monkeys swimming and up mossy green mountains that whispered cool breezes. It sparked all my senses and tugged at my heart. It sent shivers down my spine and excitement in my belly.
And sometimes it paid.
My creativity was ignited by an imagination as unique as every snowflake that falls. The words came to me, the stories flowed and the imagery made sense. I created eloquent editorial and powerful prose.
But somehow along the way I lost my creative spirit. I pushed it away. I pushed it down. I pushed deep inside me. I stopped using my gift, whether it be for lack of time, energy or age. I miss those days when I could clear my mind and let the creative juices flow as they say. It came easily, naturally.
It came quickly.
Now I struggle. My fingers no longer glide across the keys as I feverishly type a masterpiece spilling out of my head faster than my fingers can keep up. When I sit down to write, I just sit. I listen to the clink of the ice in my glass, the hum of the dishwasher and buzz of the muted TV. My mind is numb, my imagination dormant. My creativity is dull.
But I know the fire is still there, albeit more a smokey fog than a brilliant blaze right now. With a little practice and a little less stress, I hope to feed the fire again!