the paradox of creativity

by Gabriella Florencio

I just think — creativity is involuntary. A reflex. Procrastination, too, is an act of creation. Fears manifest. Indecision breeds. Body and soul diverge, with their remnants creating guilt in some, and grief in others. This is Love: an earworm multiplying underground. Scooped and stripped of its sincerity — a sovereign delicacy. Molded into algorithmic allegiance, bringing an eternal pandemic of parasitic polydipsia. I remember … once an unpretentious art form — now, a business of Ego. A silver hand making deserts around an oasis. With dull palm lines that raise splinters for sons, rusted pitchforks, and the hellish thought: I am your unwilling muse.