Hours pass and they add up to days and what was once not more than a fleeting idea, a strange feeling between breathes, a spark on an axon never meant to jump the neurons turns into a mass movement resulting into an expression. It stimulates beyond the narrow borders of my organism. It rattles the leaves of the Tree of Life like the beat of the wing of that butterfly that caused the tornado.
It’s an unruly, insubordinate spark that governs the limelight as humanity wants to be touched through their senses. He, who possesses the spark, is gifted with a key to hearts and heads. He is a Harold of the mind with the secret knowledge of a shortcut to Heaven.
Heaven is in the tingle of creating what nobody had thought of before. Heaven is in the shiver rolling down the spin when the damp tip of the brush kisses the soft texture of the canvas for the first time. Heaven is hitting the notes that vibrate through the body on its way to ecstasy and wholeness.
But you never possess it, this damn spark. It possesses you, makes you the slave of your talent. When it dances between your neurons it splits your self esteem and your self conception from your body. You are what you create. It’s you. And on the edge of starving you will buy paint and brush, guitar string or paper, as it doesn’t make sense to you to fill the body with food and breathe if you won’t exist.
No way to free yourself. The need of instant gratification is always there too, seldom quenched. It leaves doubts, big doubts about the necessity of your whole existence. No deeper Hell than that.
No way to free yourself, not worth it. The gift it’s Heaven, it’s Hell.
“Pennies in a well, a million dollars in a fountain of a hotel Fortune teller that says: maybe you will go to hell. I am not scared at all.”