The Joy of Creation

Home is in the eye of the beholder.

my creativity has always flowed better in words than through brushstrokes, or the sharp guide lines of a sketch on thick paper. it is crisp and clear, each sentence aligned just so, until the mind skates over their surface to peer below the waves and catch a glimpse of meaning. it is half-finished thoughts thrown down onto a page with tired fingers at 3 am; it is waking up the next morning with sandy eyes and graphite hands, and knowing that the pages are waiting to be translated, the rants of a mad god turned into a bible; it is electric thrills down the spine as a word, a phrase, a paragraph comes together with each stroke of fingers on keyboard. ever the form changes but what follows is the same -- stories spin themselves with thin web lines, wire frame animations that play out before me to be taken down. because home has never been a place that i have known, but maybe i can create a home as long as the page is empty, weave strands until the drifting fibres that make up my heart can be housed somewhere outside my battered chest. people take a look at a small girl in a big world and imagine that there is no use in looking further. but they do not see what a writer sees. for there is a difference between being alone and feeling alone, and the friends i have sculpted with trembling hands are as great as any i have ever known.