Times to be Creative

There are specific avenues of which one can be creative.

For example, there's painting, writing, thinking, speaking (the rarer variety), acting, playing music, and the like.

What's the point of being creative, though? Some instantly gawp at the stupidity of the question - isn't it plain human to be creative? Saying you’re not creative is like saying you’re not human, they cry! Some try harder, of course. Erich Fromm says that to be creative is to transcend oneself - a passive creature if you let yourself be. One seeks to create.

Well, of course that's fine and all. It makes sense, but what if one has no avenue to create?

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A sip of coffee. How long has it been since I had this taste? Reminiscence. Nostalgia. Another day of work.

The safe haven, really. Just follow. Isn't that the easiest thing to do. With no need to be a leader, no need to speak out, no need to go against the flow.

Just follow.

People around speak of a thing called identity. A rather interesting... - thing, if you have to call it, that defines a person as he is. What defines him, this identity, is crafted carefully. By him, of course. But by what of him? Assets? Liabilities? Strengths? Flaws? Actions? Or perhaps inactions?

A dance of fingers on the keyboard. My fingers do not stop. They are enthralled in this ritual, this waltz, this... aah, words fail to describe the elegance of it all. Letters appearing in lines, scrolling at a steady pace across the screen like an eternal riverflow of information and text, purely for the reading! One could of course find out all the flaws in this document, but that's rather inconsiderate, isn't it? To the letters; the river. To deny them of their elegance because of minute trivial technical superficial errors that the author just happened to overlook in a moment of folly (Who knows if said folly exists? Maybe it was deliberate! Maybe there's a deeper message in it? But who would write a deeper message knowing that people would snipe it down for grammatical errors like the superficial humans they are? Really, unimportant matters that don't need to be dwelt on), isn't that sheer cruelty?

Another sip. It feels really good. The aroma is just too good. When was it since I last had this taste?

Right. It wasn't that long ago, was it?

Good coffee, though, really. The kind that will keep you awake after an hour of hard work. Just keep it up. The end of the day will come. Reprieve. Until then, listen. Silence is golden. Silence is consent.

Silence is perfect.

Yes, that would be good. Silence. That and coffee. They fit well together, don't you think? Bread and butter, the like.

My colleague comes over and chats. Trivial and all, but it keeps the day going and the time flowing. Life's like that, you know? Time waits for no man; same with a cup of nice, hot coffee.

I can't recall with clear precision what we talked about. Sometimes I accidentally speak my mind, I can't remember if and when I do it, but it happens. Usually people give me weird stares. It doesn't happen too often, so. I just take a bow and apologize for saying things I shouldn't. There're those who argue their point and their belief - self-justification was what it was called, I think. But what gets done in the end? Do people actually get convinced on your point? Nah, doubt it.

My fingers dance again on the keyboard. It's an irresistible urge. The clock flows slowly but steadily until the end of the day. Time does flow when you have fun, after all.

The end of the day is welcome - a silent retreat back to the house. Another world of silence, another realm of peace, another cup of coffee.

Or course, with it another sip of it.

Aah, how long as it been since I had such the wonderful taste of coffee?

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In hindsight I should never write something this disturbing again. >_>