Creativity

They woke, in their respective homes, alert and indecisive about when to begin; most bought themselves some time (brewing coffee, making tea, or simply flubbering about distractedly), but it would happen. Resist as they might, all felt the pull and would eventually succumb to whatever siren song was coming from the materials (the sketchbooks and canvases, the notepads and apps, the needles and threads, the pots and pans, the rhythms and notes, the arias sung into pockets of air). Some were fearful and had every right to be; what burned brightly called attention to itself and couldn't lie (and there was a deep vulnerability in that). The gift existed elsewhere, in a pure and truthful space, and no amount of wreck and ruin could taint it (even if incompetence and ugliness poured out of you and tried its best to offend). It cost plenty, whatever it was, because it had a way of making you look like a loser (a poser, a wannabe) simply because it had borrowed you in its mission to be. The gift was good, and that was the problem, because it had to live in the forever flawed - within the limitations of the one designated to carry it. And it could only satisfy for a moment, because its goodness was impossible to sustain for very long (hence the irritability and long bouts of depression). That shine ... that unrelenting, unapologetic light ... could kick you in the ego so hard it was a wonder you survived.