Creators are we, who possess an excess of ideas not fit for one space. We are compelled to evict our emotions into the atmosphere, or we fear we may become wrecked parachutes. Devoid of release, our finite minds collect an ocean of visions so large that our bodies are flooded with their descriptions. It is a compulsion so great, like a ghost on our trail, and no dark little corner can offer asylum. We are inclined to feel unrestrained, for our individuality is our only true possession. When subjected to quarantine, the little dancers in our heads attempt a jeté, pleading saltations from any orifice. It is when relieved of restraint, that our bodies need the most, for once our minds catch wind of an outlet, they launch us into an uncontrollable onset of activity. If ever a man is locked away without his quill and ink, the day he is released he won't stop writing for a week. And it is in that week, so to speak, that we feel a pleasure so abundant. We are no longer floating away from earth with melancholic hearts, desperate to cling to any razor that can bleed out even the smallest idea.
24.11.2009...
MNN
Hump
