heyfunnyface

To be woken from a self-spiraling stupor by a jazz song –
to be reminded that the act of
commemorating one’s existence leads to more integration into it –
to let serotonin and dopamine
carry you past the questions
as you exert yourself in creating –
to regard the completed first draft
as you would your newborn child –
by no means finished, but precious
and valuable for the sovereign
existence now bestowed in and upon it –
this is the humble work of the creator,
who can either tarry and waffle,
self-imploding from unrealized potential,
or submit to the moment
and release- and what comes
is not to be feared, nor revered,
but acknowledged, accepted,
and eventually enjoyed
by those who enjoy it,
and ignored by the rest.
To hate it
speaks more about the hate-r
than anything about the product.
Such is the way of art.