How self centered of me to call myself an artist; as if I was worthy enough to own this creative genius or imaginative energy that flows through me from time to time -well, at least in my very own, small, constricted mind. I know that the less I try to capture it, the more it will make itself present in my life. I am nothing but a vessel. It's not something one can borrow to carry around and pull out your pocket when one feels like it; it's more so as the breeze that kisses your skin in a warm summer day, or the gentle sigh of a sleeping baby you get to witness when the moment of silence is just right; it's elusive and conclusive. It's the friend you miss. It's also the one you despise if it decides to visit you in the most imprudent of times.
I miss it.
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