The Spark


I don’t know where it lives. I don’t really know what calls it to me. I just know that when it comes, magic happens. I speak of the spark of creativity that fills my head and finds its way into my words. All writers and poets and painters and sculptors know the spark. It comes in a flash, almost a blaze and burns hot while it’s here and then it disappears. While it burns, and the raw, molten idea is fresh and malleable, the artist must work quickly. We forge it into existence using our tools. Words, paint, clay, they are all the same. That spark is life and it is truth and we simply give it form. I believe I am nothing more than its servant, existing as a conduit from its world into ours. Capturing it within us is like catching fireflies in a jar.

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