Sometimes I feel this irresistible urge to write, to just spill pen to page and let my hands do the talking. Inside I feel so many fragmented ideas, emotions and the like, but I am not ready to give birth. My ideas swirl around within me, unformed, unborn. Becoming pregnant is more than a concrete reality, rather, a metaphorical phenomenon experienced by the artist. Yes, you can write, paint, dance and love, but if you are not due, you will not crown.
Time will pass and you will feel the need… But at once, one day, you will feel the urge to really purge your body of all that is inside. To really let go and let it flow. You will produce as if touched by a muse, something etched by your soul, something that is apart of you. And maybe someone will read it, will experience it, and maybe they might like it… or maybe they won’t. Either way this creation is still yours… this is your baby.