The act of creation

It was late in life when I learned that creativity isn't supposed to be a pleasant process, self-expression pouring out of the artist as easy as you and I would breathe.

My own thoughts woke me before dawn, a restless cacophony from a part of my brain with no concern for sleep or plans for the next day. Always contriving, whenever it announces itself I am at its mercy.

I got up, made some coffee, pen and paper already on the kitchen table as I knew the fucker would present itself at the least opportune time and I'd have to help the process through. Straining, reprieving, making space, scrambling for purchase. My thoughts are jumbled mess, what felt promising minutes before now comes frustratingly short of the target, unable to condense on paper that ineffable feeling.
It was too soon, I offer, back in control of my own faculties — unsatisfied.
Yes, it will feel good to get it out of my system.

Creativity is being given a locked box containing a piece of your soul, its key shattered in a million pieces. If you sit still, you can hear God cackling in the background.